by Graham Hayward

Created on: February 02, 2008

In a Station for Busses

He sits and writes
inside a tiny book,
corralled
by
trembling hands.
Fortunes
pile
from his head
to the paper.

I know,

at times
he stops
he hurts inside,
he
stares,
surprised,
as if hatched
from
another world.

He ended my search,
for something
to study.
I looked
for
anything,
according to school.
I wanted
to
build,
be king
to the sky.

I found a poet,
I know
now
I did.

He built buildings
in a book.

In a station for busses.

His mountains
lay flat,
but tall on
the page,
rivers stormed from
his paper and pen.

Rambling stories
tumbled from
his chewed
yellow pencil.
In the station
for busses,
we write by the travelers.

Going no where,
while they file by,
he writes,
held together
by his tales.

With all the words
inside him,
yet to come from him,
he writes because
he has to,
has to.

I watched,
him,
for years,
three times
during Christmas,
once on Thanksgiving eve.
The years never
forgave him,
they piled on
and left him here.

I know about
this art,
I build one word
before
another,
then finish
with a piece
of what I've built
that day.

At times
I stop,
not for long,
in the station
where the busses are.
They come
and go,
spilling people,
then,
swallowing more,
great steel stomachs,
rolling in and out.

I sit
and write,
building by the busses,
stories pouring
from the fountain
in the park
inside my head.

But,

I need to keep
me writing,
I have to,
or I'll die.

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