The infamous four wheeled yellow bus.
Who would have thought lives would circulate around this creature?
That dreams would be made around this dwelling?...or not made.
Burdening oneself under covers, not wanting to know what the day will bring.
Will it rain or will it shine?
Will there be teardrops in the puddles or joy?
A smattering of dreams left in mud.
Whence does the child arrive?
Shall she cry forth through tattered windowpanes?
Will she always be watching for the bus? And waiting.
Smashing sandwiches together before the bell tolls on tracks of asphalt.
Always a hurry. No wonder she crashes. Tired. Consuming soaps and talks. Her vanity. Her escape.
And now I hear the familiar sound of far off. The engine announcing it is near again.
This taunt. This haunt. Of where does it bellow?
What shall I do? Where do I begin? How do I learn to leave this yearning for the bus?
How do I part from its boisterous mouth? The dragon. Of silver fender teeth.
I wish I could drown out the noise and surrender to the solitude.
But it is always lurking, jerking me around. Wanting to claim a life that is mine.
From whom the bus tolls.
The wheels on the bus go round and round.
Round and round. Round and round.
When does the circle end? And the story begin? The novel from whom the bus tolls.