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He drove the bus,
year in, year out.
One hour journeys
twice a day.
Transporting brats
without,
and nerds with glasses,
displaying patience,
and innate skill.
They'd charged him with,
and had insisted
on maintenance
of discipline,
his name was Oskar,
in itself a hindrance,
perhaps a butt of jokes.
But he had always simply put
his bravest face
on for the world.
We smoked cigars and cigarettes,
stuck bubblegum under his seat,
and slipped a bit of Glauber Salts
into his thermos, for effect.
I do remember
those occasions,
when suddenly
an interruption
of our journey
did occur
and Oskar ran
into the trees.
Such harmless pranks,
such pleasant driver.
When he retired at age seventy,
we felt, in all parts of the globe,
that a great man, a real icon
had hung his hat for one last time.
He liked his beer
and potent brandy.
We celebrated 10 years on.
And when the snows came in that year,
he laid his head
upon his pillow.
And once more donned
his bravest face.
Herbert Nehrlich
Read poems about / on: journey, remember, world, running, tree
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Click here to write your comments about this poem (Oskar by Herbert Nehrlich)
Herbert Nehrlich (4/10/2005 7:35:00 AM)
What a [pity..., , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , *********************************
H |
Rev. Dr. A. Jacob Hassler (4/7/2005 7:13:00 AM)
i enjoyed this piece immensely, Herbert.
Jake |
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