Bus Poem Poem by robert dickerson

Rheumy, achy day
planes of dull green
eclipsing dull reds
there and here scrapes of blue, a
wreathable, breathable
fog, sun shot like the
smoke from a sacrifice,
lifting itself from the street,
rifting, drifting,
turning to rain in throats,
turning in air to air, to
rain, fat globules of...
each a quiveroue, a
problem in calculus:
some early gold in the trees-

And men like bees
from this crack in tthe walk
funnelling in and un,
wild to forage
lighting forth
sensors awash
with pink and yellow rifts
of nectar principle;
or disappearing down
brief faces, briefcases packed
with hard-won pollen
giddy substrate, negotiable,
metabolisable to cash;

At the curb stop
a portly man, not unsympathetic,
trying to tame his unruly umbrella
giddily inverted,
great black buttercup,
veering, plunging
willing victim of the sudden wind,
scared and thrilled
hating its boss, hating its job,
knowing there has been a mistake-
knowing it was born to be
a kit, a parachute
a witching wand.