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on missing the bus (Free verse) by Bill Z Bub

Sometimes I tire of being the man on the corner, waiting. the man in the city, by the side of the street, sore feet pacing in sneaky circles. muttering. muttering. There's no choice but to fall back, shoulder wedged into the weathered texture of Maple. I surrender to the green grass, and the hordes of roaring dandelion, and just rest my eyes. for a time.

<{Baba^Yaga}> 19-May-03/8:04 PM
A requisition immaculate.




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