One Stop, Poetry

The bus folds shut its wide accordion
doors, and reels away from shelter.
Finally settled in our seats, we press
against the window glass. Outside,

the world unrolls its cinematic
cartography, the vagrant landscapes
of imagination. Here, a young boy
swivels on a bright red

bicycle, his suited father panting close
behind. There, two women edge
a garden path, hand in hand, one on
the stone, the other on the grass.

Beyond, a wife and husband swing
together on a porch; the sunshine
wanes across their faces, and their forty-
seven years of cinnamon and tea.

These are the triolets and villanelles
of life, and we its jostled passengers,
marvelling at the projected tapestry
that weaves, unweaves itself

across the circuit of our journ –
browsers, writers, dreamers, friends –
companions on this craft
that has but one stop, poetry.