Bus Poem

Rheumy, achy day
planes of dull green
eclipsing dull reds
there and here scrapes of blue, a
wreathable, breathable
fog, sun shot like the
smoke from a sacrifice,
lifting itself from the street,
rifting, drifting,
turning to rain in throats,
turning in air to air, to
rain, fat globules of...
each a quiveroue, a
problem in calculus:
some early gold in the trees-

And men like bees
from this crack in tthe walk
funnelling in and un,
wild to forage
lighting forth
sensors awash
with pink and yellow rifts
of nectar principle;
or disappearing down
brief faces, briefcases packed
with hard-won pollen
giddy substrate, negotiable,
metabolisable to cash;

At the curb stop
a portly man, not unsympathetic,
trying to tame his unruly umbrella
giddily inverted,
great black buttercup,
veering, plunging
willing victim of the sudden wind,
scared and thrilled
hating its boss, hating its job,
knowing there has been a mistake-
knowing it was born to be
a kit, a parachute
a witching wand.

by robert dickerson

Other poems of DICKERSON (326)

Comments (7)

The people you speak of are also workers among workers and the author recognizes art that is useful as more beautiful than art that is merely observed.
Hurtful to people who give their widow's mites of physical strength to society and to churches. Also seems to imply that the only art worth of being on the walls
I remember the first time I read this poem in the 1970's! It went straight to my heart and became central to my approach to life! I feel as strong an emotional connection to it today as when I first discovered it! ! Can you imagine giving such a gift as this to the world?
Such a perfect poem for the times of today. It's so much better to admire a hard physical worker wh may work for peanuts than one who sits high up and passes the buck while raking in millions. A wonderful write!
Love it! ! girl power!
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