Self-Pity On The Blue Bus by David Spicer

The blue bus sputters down the boulevard.
I invest my money riding it, hear ripples
of sweet gum leaves waving to me,
my chrome sunglasses dirty from plunges
into swamps. I’m no saint, but I know
that peach blossoms smell of holy water,
and steam from the lungs of gators conspires
against us brutes soon dead. Boo me if you like,
sink to that level against my struggle, scratch
chalk against the blackboard of my soul.
That’ll prove nothing but the fact
I prefer greasy spoons to five stars.

David Spicer

David Spicer has had poems accepted by or published in The American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, Reed Magazine, Circle Show, Slim Volume, Yellow Mama, Jersey Devil Press, Bad Acid Laboratories, Inc., The Kitchen Poet, and elsewhere. He is the author of one full-length collection and four chapbooks, is the former editor of raccoon, Outlaw, and Ion Books, and lives in Memphis, Tennessee.


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