mhall46184@aol.com
A Hurricane at the Bus Stop
Sunday Night in East Texas
There will be no big yellow busses tomorrow
Clattering along dusty rural roads
And stopping for each bouquet of children
Lovely, and flower-fresh in their store-new clothes
Through day and night, and day and night again
The rain has fallen in tired metaphors
As fire-ants float along in stinging balls
And water-moccasins swim the lawn with death
Stories and riddles by lamp-light tonight,
And “Someday you’ll tell your children about this”
