The Bus Stop

The little Seine holds the ducks hostage
Under the blood orange skies
While two women on a balcony
Pop a bottle of champagne
Letting the cold plastic cork
Soar over the less fortunate 
On bar stools and stone benches
Celebrating the fact that life
Had failed us all 
And underneath them in the bar
The men buzz around like suicidal honey bees
Looking to stab the first opening they see
While the pollen-less women
Cross and uncross their fat, sweaty legs
And the entry-level European hipsters
Dance across the street without looking both ways
Pretending not to care that it had started raining
While an old man on a rusted bicycle
Waited patiently at a stop light
Even though there wasn't a car in sight
Holding up his prized mechanical machine
With one hand and an umbrella in the other
Broken down like a piece of prose with
Line breaks masquerading as a poem
And when the blood orange sky soiled herself
Like a broken black ink pen I still sat waiting
For my bus as an adjective-less car drove by
Without her lights on and I considered 
Warning her but I couldn't speak the language


Jameson Stewart enjoys leaving messages in a bottle in his bathtub, frequent Nerudian slips when discussing romance and cold weather. He believes the best part of opening a bottle of champagne is that you then must drink it in its entirety, and the best part of writing poetry is submitting it to editors for rejection.

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