Bus Poem # 31 Poem by robert dickerson
Bus Poem # 31
That man polishes his car-
plexiglass and chrome
shine lordlier with each stroke;
at his sweater's collar
bristles a gob of lint;
I would descend from this bus
to pick it off
and perfect his orb,
but again the light has changed-
we move on.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Topic(s) of this poem: car
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8/29/2026 12:28:16 AM # rel_20260827T145718Z_a0f1bd3
