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?