when the bus is enough

under my window the bus is enough
reassurance, that heavy solemn sound
nobody around, but the leaves turn yellow
and bow, the bus rolls by again

in autumn solitude a solace, the rain
spatters leaves on its broad white back
sibilant hiss of tires, holding on pavement,
steady, white beard black driver waves

familiar routes, constancy of sound
bringing late fall sun, red leaves
black boughs, old sun coming home
returning, my bus comes round again