WRITER ON THE BUS

Huddled in his seat on the swaying bus
Oblivious to all sights or soundings.
He doesn't see or hear the rest of us,
Standing, shoving, crowded all around him.
Some are bored, some too loud, others napping
While his fingers on the keys are tapping.

Fogging windows shut out the passing world.
Draping mists dim the winter afternoon
While he’s in his secluded corner curled.
His focus seals him in his small cocoon.
He is off somewhere in a thrilling story
Risking everything for truth and glory.

Sailing the southern trades on golden seas,
Or mushing dogs cross the frozen tundra;
Only such driving visions does he see.
He’s caught up in all the fears and wonder,
Holding firmly to his inspiration,
Undisturbed by lesser fascinations.

The story's pace now takes away his breath,
Coming faster than even he can write,
As his character faces life or death!
Now the end draws near—but so does the night.
He must step from his imagination
Having reached his stop and destination.

This poem was published in the book Take Me To The Garden.

https://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B07YSVLW24/ref=dbs_a_def_rwt_bibl_vppi_i10

Amazon Author Central page.