Thursday, November 17, 2011

bus drama

from the prime first seat i see
an old woman outside the door as it closes, she doesn't see me,
looking up she is mouthing pleading words to the driver
while he sits comfortably aloof looking straight ahead

she is manically asking help from God,
desperately imploring the baby Jesus
hands on the wheel the driver is warm in his glass booth
the elderly woman outside the door shakes her fist

i’m in the middle nearly between them
what should i shout - Hey, Whoa, Wait?
unable to quickly form helpful words
it all unfolds a breath before the bus departs

5 comments:

Annie said...

We've all experienced something similar, and we don't know what to do, and by the time we figure it out, it's too late. And one bet, that driver saw her in his peripheral vision, but he didn't want to wait.

The wheeled sarcophagus sounds so morbid; I can attach all kinds of allusions to it, far reaching, into the poem.

jack sender said...

i was adding lines and reworking phrases in the middle of the night last night, but didn't get up and note them, i was going to remember the thoughts, and i'm jet lagged,. . .maybe it'll occur to me.
the mobile sarcophagus seemed inventive when i put it down, it was a stretch. . . now i have to rethink the parts . . is this jetlag?

i'm pleased one of us is studying poetry.

jack sender said...

ok i took it out and will rethink.

Annie said...

Hi Jack,

I like your new opening lines. There's nice "music" in them, and the juxtaposition of imagery, with the "I" in the prime first seat, and the old woman out on the street.

I liked the wheeled sarcophagus, too, but it made me think morbid thoughts of the "ferryman," and I wondered if it was a good thing she missed the ride- though I didn't think that was the allusion you intended.

jack sender said...

some think an attribute of poetry is the possibility of multiple inerpretations. once in a while will i got that way. Generally i keep within the affect of the beat poets.