NewPoetry

Dave Hickey

On mornings immaculate with fog,
Marlene clicks the scissor door
open, which disappears

inwards, like exhausted caregivers
everywhere. My daughter
steeple jumps towards her, leaps

steps a third her height,
and swings into the very rst
seat, saved for the lightest of passengers.

The stop sign folds: a minor
mechanical wonder I
watch, still groggy and dazed

as the brakes release, and all
that electricity is set
in motion. A thousand kilometres

west of here, this same bus will burn:
vinyl smoke, unmistakable blue
bookending its length,

billows going up,
and soon nothing is left
but the blame. A hazmat suit

is sensible fashion
these days, and
anyone appearing hopeful

seems disastrously
underdressed.
Still I wave to my daughter,

knowing she is already
elsewhere, and that I’m waving
to my own reflection,

the parts of myself
the world returns and
those that are never not leaving.