by Neil Donnelly
There’s an old boy running for the bus!
shouts a passenger, stepping off. Driver
waits, keeps the door open while his impatient
engine irritates. The old boy, slower than a winter
tortoise, emerges, then plops down into the seat
beside me. We are on our way.
*
I had a chance to see Dylan
Thomas read his poetry in New York
once, he begins, but I didn’t go,
thought I’d see him again….
*
He’s silent until the bus terminates
across from Whittington Hospital
in Archway. Door won’t open.
We wait. He recites:
*
Used to run here
and there, long distance,
short, ran everywhere.
But now, when I
ascend the stairs.
I say my prayers,
and hope the devil won’t be waiting there.
*
Finally, door opens. And as we
go our separate ways, he says:
*
The door failing to open or close,
isn’t really the fault of the door.