He would write poetry

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.




5 thoughts on “He would write poetry

    • 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.


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