The Busses Poem By Frederick Morgan
From our corner window
rainy winter mornings
we watch the yellow school busses
nudging their way down Park
moistly glowing, puddled by the rain.
Stopping at doorways here and there
where children climb aboard
they merge into the traffic’s flow
and dwindle from our sight.
We watch—then turn away,
and when in changing light
we look again, we see a stream
dark and serene in China,
down which sleek goldfish dart and gleam.