I don’t know how it ends. I imagine it will end with a hook and a hat and a sigh. Like at the end of the day.
Or a treatise will be inaugurated by the passing clouds.
Written on a wall of the bus station, where you wait for the interstate, “The baritones at the rodeo / Dance for the baronesses.” Accompanied by artwork. In black marker.
Everywhere complexity experiencing the waves and particles and chemical bonds, electricity and gravity.
The questions of infinity are no nearer completion. Thankful for that. Sitting on the bus seat, counting the landscapes. Dreaming or being dreamed. Probably both.
naïve haircuts 
I enjoyed this rollicking poem, felt like a bus arriving after a long wait. The way the poem begins not knowing how it ends and then it ending with a beginning of this all maybe, probably being someone else’s dream. I think there’s some Hindu thinking about a god dreaming the world and when it wakes up the world ends.
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Thanks Steve. It’s a funny feeling that this is all a dream. Maybe that’s part of it? I miss long bus rides. That was the way to travel when I didn’t have the money for a personal car of a flight. Those hours staring out the window.
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I’m with you on the dreaminess of a long bus ride and watching it all pass outside the window.
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Excellent piece, Bob – I love the imagery in the closing paragraph. Sadly we will never get the chance to reflect on how it does all end – perhaps our own scratchings are all we leave.
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Thanks. Yes, I guess we’ll leave these scratchings. And who knows what will become of them. Maybe that’s for the best?
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Maybe…
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‘everywhere complexity’ but your poem bravely grapples with it 🙂
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Thanks John!! Much appreciated.😊
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Great poem. I especially like the dreaming or being dream line. Been on that bus; looked out that window. 😊🚎
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Thanks Diana. There’s something really meditative about long bus rides and getting lost in the passing landscapes.
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I really enjoy this. The Hinduistic or Taoistic ending is lovely, and I particularly like the third paragraph. I’ve often thought that a poem comprised of graffiti gleaned from bus stations, toilet stalls, and the like would be fun. It’d be a sort of cento–a cento of many anonymous poets. I think Ginsberg did something like that, actually; it’s in a posthumously published book.
Good work.
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Thanks! I’ve had similar ideas. Of writing poems on stalls and trestles and photographing them. I did a lot of traveling when I was young in the 90’s. I should have photographed the stalls and graffiti. But I guess we don’t think that way when we’re young. I’m going to look for that Ginsberg.
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I think it’s in *Wait Till I’m Dead*. A good read. He makes you feel like poetry is an instrument anyone can play.
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Thanks! I’ll check this out.
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I love this. And the ending is perfect. Well done, Bob!
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