The father of the girl
I stare at now,
as we wait for our morning bus,
stands across the street,
tall and proper in his
chesterfield and spats.
He is waiting for a bus
that goes in the opposite direction.
He wears a derby,
swings a silver cane,
smokes a green panatela.
Suddenly he pirouettes
and smiles at my daughter.
She takes the same bus
to school every morning.
That night at supper,
I ask her about him.
'Dad, he's super! '
At 12, she knows.
'Dad, he rides the same bus
as me every morning.
He checks my homework
and I ask him questions.
Dad, he knows all the answers.'
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This poem presents (at least to me) a wonderfully surrealistic story and portrait—with a nice touch of suspense. It reminds me of some of the French poems of Jacques Prévert—high praise indeed! - See in particular “Dimanche.” Thank you! You made my day! I’m going to have to read your other poems.