While Waiting for the Bus

Under the eaves of the gas-mart—swallows

fall into the day, wheel before the headless 

grooms of the formal wear shop, angle low

as my shoes, then comet up, sheer, careless

of traffic, all that is grounded or down.

A flight of leaf-blown cursives, blue coats

over dashing white, the red-rift of dawn

painted upon their crowns and busy throats.

I must learn to keep them with me, to hold,

somehow, their accomplished joy when I’m gone

to the city where I am mostly old 

and their song, under the noise of hours, is done.

But now, auto exhaust cripples the air

as my grey somnambulant bus draws near.