In a Station for Busses

In a Station for Busses

He sits and writes

inside a tiny book,

corralled

by

trembling hands.

Fortunes

pile

from his head

to the paper.

I know,

at times

he stops

he hurts inside,

he

stares,

surprised,

as if hatched

from

another world.

He ended my search,

for something

to study.

I looked

 for

anything,

according to school.

I wanted

to

build,

be king

to the sky.

I found a poet,

I know

now

I did.

He built buildings

in a book.

In a station for busses.

His mountains

lay flat,

but tall on

the page,

rivers stormed from

his paper and pen.

Rambling stories

tumbled from

his chewed

yellow pencil.

In the station

for busses,

we write by the travelers.

Going no where,

while they file by,

he writes,

held together

by his tales.

With all the words

inside him,

yet to come from him,

he writes because

he has to,

has to.

I watched,

him,

for years,

three times

during Christmas,

once on Thanksgiving eve.

The years never

forgave him,

they piled on

and left him here.

I know about

this art,

I build one word

before

another,

then finish

with a piece

of what I’ve built

that day.

At times

I stop,

not for long,

in the station

where the busses are.

They come

and go,

spilling people,

then,

swallowing more,

great steel stomachs,

rolling in and out.

I sit

and write,

building by the busses,

stories pouring

from the fountain

in the park

inside my head.

But,

I need to keep

me writing,

I have to,

or I’ll die.

Hayward 2006