Dave Hall
California Dreams
Stop-starting
Grinding up the hill,
It’s sticky-warm inside the bus
As the rain, wind-driven,
Lashes the windows.
I clear a space, look out;
People hunched against the wind,
Against the rain, the cold,
Hands driven deep into pockets.
Heads stiffly bowed.
The bus shudders to a stop.
Passengers tumble aboard.
Drenched, dripping.
Bumping down the aisle
Tickets crushed in fists.
You can see why
Californians want to live forever
But it’s hard not to think
On days like this, isn’t it.
Of spiders eating nightingales.
Page(s) 21
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