Riding
I imagine you drifting
in thoughts on the bus
by the window with
a mystery package
Hear me honk
see me as the bird
that flaps a clap
applauding your reverie
On your way, squealing
with the wheeling of the bus
I am the squeaky brakes
squawking to see you; I am
the roar of the engine
Wake up. Don’t
miss your stop
don’t drop your
precious package
Arrive soon, because
I can’t wait to
open you up
to ride with me
From my poetry books
— Douglas Gilbert
