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
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5/11/2024 8:49:45 AM # 1.0.0.1119
