South Station

Under the eaves of the gas-mart—swallows
fall into the day, wheel before the headless 
grooms of the formal wear shop, angle low
as my shoes, then comet up, sheer, careless
of traffic, all that is grounded or down.
A flight of leaf-blown cursives, blue coats
over dashing white, the red-rift of dawn
painted upon their crowns and busy throats.
I must learn to keep them with me, to hold,
somehow, their accomplished joy when I’m gone
to the city where I am mostly old 
and their song, under the noise of hours, is done.
But now, auto exhaust cripples the air
as my grey somnambulant bus draws near.


While Waiting for the Bus, by Eliot Khalil Wilson


Spent the day driving to Boston and back, picking up my son who was coming in from NYC on the Greyhound. Didn't have time to see much of the city.