Paterson Line 23

He drives a bus
Drops off the passengers
Here and there along
His line.
Always in the small town
Where water falls
On dogs unleashed
And sober pints
And color-blind curtains, cakes
Stringed notes of music
And chessboards
And fellows in and out.
The notebook was full and clean,
The pen a blue-tipped match.
The words went up in flames
In the shredding mouth of a lonely pet.
He drives a bus in a small town
Where another poet once lived
And wrote
Among many a pair of twins
Sitting on a bench by the waterfalls
Or on a bus
Or near an old factory.

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