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“Bus Stop” by Reginald Marsh. Image source: Encore Editions |
i stod at the bus stop as a man late for work
looking down the street
wishing this bus would appare from thin air
I’d trade the life of every passing car for my bus
I stod at the bus stop alone
feeling as if i where to die at any moment
almost in shock that i wasnt
i stod as a man looking for his only ride
like when I was four
me and my father waited for the tractor
to take us around the apple ranch
i look down
staring at my hands
think if all i have done with these
ive build, destroyed, takin and give
but what did you do?
What was your triumph?
I stod at the bus stop as a boy
hearing the rpms
twine as when the transmission shifts
the complete stop
Kushhh! brakes awoke me to another dream…
And the only thing i had of my father’s was a glass from Venezuela
He died when i was 5, his glass went when i was 21
the corner where it broke still smells of old whiskey
I had my heart ripped out before
I dont like doing it to others, tho it happens…
Would you rather be the gun shot victum?
This poem by Stephen Cafagna is from his dissertation, finalized in Fayetteville. It functions in the interstices of language and urban life -- in dialect, representing a bridge of sorts, connecting the world of illiteracy, in all its unappreciated beauty, to the literary world.
