So close to sleep when the light went out.
Before the boy with the pocket knife
got on the crosstown bus.
Folding, unfolding the two inch blade.
Ringing the bell but never getting off.
Just sitting there, looking out the window.
December 4, 2012 by chrisbkm
So close to sleep when the light went out.
Before the boy with the pocket knife
got on the crosstown bus.
Folding, unfolding the two inch blade.
Ringing the bell but never getting off.
Just sitting there, looking out the window.
I like the tension and compassion.
Brrrr – chilling.
Oh he would write poetry … of course he would. The two inch blade … of poetry.
I like the loaded air here. Not really because of the knife, but because of the kid’s heavy thought. Heavy without ever saying so.
It’s interesting how poetry (at least mine) can have a life of it’s own once the words begin to fall. This poem was based on a flash memory of a jackknife I had when I was a boy – probably 45 years ago or more. That memory brought back another of riding the city bus alone around the same age… and so it goes.
Thanks for dropping by Jerron and taking the time to comment. I always enjoy your writing.
Chris