Boy on the bus

When he said Bible I heard his southern accentand he had a face I expect all pastors must havea round open honest facethat will always be a boy’s facethough its owner may rightly call himself a mannear my age though I hardly call myself a man

I have seen this face before whether in life or a dreamI can’t tellI might’ve seen him on the street oncetwice who knows and his pastor’s moon facereminds me of somethingsome distant light my life used to own

One night on my birthday the moon was so strong it cast shadowsI could see to the far hill and back it was all clear to me

The moon hasn’t done that in a long timeits face has been obscured by clouds for weeksand that boy on the bus his face I’ve forgottenI thought I recognized a good number of peopleon that bus who I didn’t know at all