Bus Route
A
poem by Paul Greulich
BUS ROUTE
My bus once came this way
past buildings being built
lives being lived.
Now buses still pass
and sometimes I pass
and nothing has been built.
They are fairy tale farms,
suspended in crumbled youth
incomplete, but still hoping.
After seeing it every day
to and from that school,
you chose to be frozen here.
You stayed.
To gaze out from this autumn painting
To watch the school’s buses pass and pass,
newer and newer,
ever the same.
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