My Friend The Bus
Michael Minassian
My friend’s wife called me
and complained about her husband:
“He thinks he is a bus
and when we drive around town,
stops at every corner,” she said.
“Then he belches black
smoke and paints
advertisements on his back “
The next day she phoned again
and complained about the poems
he buries in the back yard,
beautiful sonnets he claims
are drowning out the past.
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