WEN: 32B204
Exhibitor Name: Joe Carlucci
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
TO THE BUS STOP
My week’s visit is measured not by days, But by strides down the front yard and circuitous routes to Burr Oak Road To meet the big yellow bus.
I never got to ride the school bus.
So I watch Trenton with some envy, Hopping up the rubber-ribbed steps to the old cushioned seats while Miss Lisa works the push/pull lever to open and close the door.
Each day was different.
Chasing him on his scooter down the hill, with bad knees and good intentions As he calmly wiggles his slight frame in tight curves and perfect precision. Picking up speed as if one with the steering post. Until the still-mysterious altercation with the swing on the school playground Leading to stitches and a pause on wearing his helmet. No helmet, no scooter.
One day, wind sprints!
Skinny legs flying like one of those desktop toys with the elastic string through the appendages. Arms and legs flailing in all directions, Bottoms of his shoes flapping in synchrony, waving good bye to me as they fly through the air. Staying close enough to keep an eye on him But far enough away to feel my age. He’s faster than he looks.
Then my favorite day, the slow walk.
Where we go side by side, taking our time. Examining the squashed frog at the side of the road, and wondering about his last jumps. Reciting numbers on mail boxes, and looking in the drainage ditch for any sign of wildlife. Trying to guess how big the dog is that we couldn’t see, But certainly could hear! As we near the wooded country road where he will meet the bus, I caution him, “Trenton, stay close, it’s a busy street.” He reaches for my hand And as I slowly close mine around his, we walk the last few yards to the corner.
I wish he could stay home today.
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