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

reverie

this is our identity, the golden age

we sell each other our dreams at a discount
along the avenues, in the bodegas,
at porch sales, in the cathedrals

unweary but dazed, heads down

but our dreams are lucid, vivid,
reworking the events of forty years ago
with remarkable clarity

now you are on the campus, in a single room
the girl who broke your heart
explains it all, giving particular attention
to your defects

now you are marching down Broadway
with your comrades in arms, the heroes
of the revolution, unabashed, unbowed

on a bicycle in the golden autumn
when the sap flows, crisp, no humidity
clarity of thought, ambition, present in the moment, electric perception, in a great good place your thoughts are noted, confirmed by wise elders

now in the golden age what price our own wisdom?

we market our dreams at a discount
in silent auctions