|
Replying to a comment on:
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.
|