Continuing my French dedicated blog week, here is a poem that I wrote while, you guessed it, waiting for a bus in the south of France. This is definitely a departure from what I usually write, for a poet I am not. Feel free to also check out Observations in Paris.
Waiting for the Bus in St. Cyprien
Before I got hot and sticky
I had two strong, black cups of coffee
Now I’ve got the jitters, and
Every car that approaches sounds like the bus .
Maybe the church bells will ring
To tell me the time
Never mind. No need.
The bus has arrived.
No seats are empty, but
My stiff knees enjoy standing.
The bus starts to move.
The breeze is relieving.
Since every word is unfamiliar,
I don’t know my stop.
The caffeine and bumpy ride makes my stomach excited.
Then the kind driver helps me,
And once again I am on my way. . .