Edward Derby
Twelve
The bus kneels
for the bent ghost
of my father,
twinkle in his eye.
He boards with
a box of Voodoo
Doughnuts,
a dozen sweet
apologies.
He looks at me
but doesn’t offer them.
The bus kneels
for the bent ghost
of my father,
twinkle in his eye.
He boards with
a box of Voodoo
Doughnuts,
a dozen sweet
apologies.
He looks at me
but doesn’t offer them.