The Bus Stops Here

Laurel Devitt

I sit on the bench
At the bus stop.
An old man, odd
But not alarming,
Approaches as if
To sit, but he
Is distracted by a
Slender dragonfly.

He spreads his
Arms like a child
Imitating a plane,
And sets out after
The shimmery insect.
Across the lawn,
Into the neighbor’s
Flowerbeds they zip.

Then they are back, arms
And wings quivering in place.
“The bus,” I say.
“Here comes the bus.”
The creature flies on,
The man close behind.
“I’m learning to fly,” he calls.
“There’s always another bus.”

 
 Laurel Devitt

Laurel Devitt

Laurel lives and writes among the lovely bluffs and rivers of La Crosse.  Inspiration is everywhere.