At the Bus Stop

The sister's holding Robert Frost,
which catches my attention. How often
do you find fourth graders reading
anything these days, not to mention something
of that calibre? "Whose woods these are,
I think I know," I quote, and help her find
the page. Waiting for the bus beneath
third quarter moon, we talk of poems and school
and why our grandson lives with us.
"I write poetry," I say, and nod my
head his way. "Sometimes about him,"
which pleases all three children, bonded
by innate desire for recognition not just
as someone in the crowd, but someone special.
"Would you write about me?" the brother asks.
not shy at all but sensing that I need more
information on the subject quickly adds
that he likes racecars and mermaids, his tone
daring me to find this odd, perplexing combination
guaranteed, perhaps on purpose, clever calculation
to insure my fascination and continued interest.
Moon and sun are both on site to watch
them board their smelly yellow transport
as I walk back to the apartment, thinking
on the kind of boy who doesn't mind a bit
his standing out as just a little different.
His sister, too, now that I think about it,
wondering who she has around to talk
about the deep things Frost inspires.
Observing them today, I think her brother
may turn out to be the sort who, in later years,
will be best friend and ally, sounding board
for dreams and schemes and mermaids
taking breaks from all that water,
working pit crew in Daytona.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2013