Poetry: Madman at the Bus Stop
Madman at the Bus Stop
By Joni Scanlon
A tall, sprightly man perhaps thirty or less,
awaits his late-coming bus flaunting dirty beret,
and fuchsia pants with matched sunglasses.
My lips crack a smile, watching him dance.
Skip work and play, my wayward self whispers,
transfixed in that moment by pure joyfulness.
The mood is quite broken by a stoutly turned woman,
Bustling into the bank, she sourly mutters,
He’s mad, he’s crazy, quite clearly he’s nuts.
Frowning, I steal a last backward glance.
By whose prescribed standards do we judge such a man?
And when did it happen, we forgot how to dance?
More by this Author
Beautiful country in Arizona, on way to the Grand Canyon. Red Rocks of Sedona Happy Thanksgiving! This year as in years past, I skipped the usual gobble-fest and traveled with family to a beautiful spot. Our 2010...
jonihnj 6 weeks ago Dia Duit! That's a standard greeting used by many practiced Gaeilge (Irish) speakers. It means "Hi," but as with all things Irish, controversy exists over its usage. I shall get to that...