This is one of the very few attempts at poetry I've ever made and I'm not really a big fan of it. It doesn't even look like poetry to me, actually. I was forced into entering it into some stupid contest, and won some stupid award, which ended up just being a piece of paper with gaudy lettering, which got thrown away before I had to confess how I'd ended up with it. I don't really know how or why this stream of thoughts had merited any awards, meaningless or not. I didn't really care though. I would give back any award, ever, for anything, just to be given the chance to turn around at the bottom of those steps to the bus, and ask, "May I have your address?"

Lonely bus station
lonely people
Everyone yearns to leave
to finish the last leg of a long journey
to reach the final destination.
No one wants to talk
to converse
to share thoughts and emotions
to talk to a total stranger.
No one except him.
First about trivial things
How the vending machine burger tasted           gross
Where was I headed?          Off to see my sister
And then my name
And then his          John
Then a handshake
and we were friends.

Lonely bus
lonely people
Everybody counting the miles
longing to return home
to find comfort in familiar surroundings
and familiar people.
No one talking.
Except John          and now me.

Like a flower
which blossoms and shows forth its beauty
to all who care to look.
But when it dies
its beauty is gone
never to be seen again.
Only in the memories of its admirers does it live on.

Like a flower
he blossomed for me
and showed forth his beauty
for me
a stranger.
The ideas and viewpoints
the facts and figures.
Of marriage and friendship
of 24,000 square foot buildings
and 550 bricks in a 2,200 pound pallet.
Of honor and valor
of princetons and harvards           construction vehicles
and contracts won and lost.

But like a flower
he too died
as I walked off the bus
without his full name.
To me
he is now only the memory of John.

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