Free Verse
On the 74
Bus
microbes shift
and blink
from the floor and
morning tears the sky to shreds. oceans
of
time curdle into microseconds.
here on the bus,
rubber mats disintegrate
as minutes and hours
rain
from the wrists of commuters
the bus riders hold their masks in their hands
outside diamonds sparkle in the
street and heavy trucks roar
and grind.
faces shrivel and
fingers clutch
at ghosts. there is no expiation here,
no benediction
and no “fucking contrition!”* red fire falls
shimmering
from the glimmering plastic
sky
*see: Ernest Hemingway. “Second Poem for Mary.”
"On
the 74 Bus" was first published in
Plainsongs, a poetry journal published by the
Department of English, Hastings College, Hastings, Nebraska
68901.
Art Gallery 1 by Norman Olson
