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Donald Justice - Bus Stop

Lights are burning 
In quiet rooms 
Where lives go on 
Resembling ours. 

The quiet lives 
That follow us— 
These lives we lead 
But do not own— 

Stand in the rain 
So quietly 
When we are gone, 
So quietly . . . 
And the last bus 
Comes letting dark 
Umbrellas out— 
Black flowers, black flowers. 

And lives go on. 
And lives go on 
Like sudden lights 
At street corners 

Or like the lights 
In quiet rooms 
Left on for hours, 
Burning, burning.

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Added: Feb 21 2003 | Viewed: 13704 times | Comments and analysis of Bus Stop by Donald Justice Comments (6)

Bus Stop - Comments and Information

Poet: Donald Justice
Poem: Bus Stop
Poem of the Day: Jun 2 2004

Comment 6 of 6, added on February 11th, 2012 at 8:38 PM.
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After lnvaieg your twisted,twenty-first century childhood,the ability to critiqueunfortunate fashion choicesand text at lightning speedwill have to carry you.Perhaps these skills will be allthat’s needed in the crumplednew world you kids are building.I’ll be well out of it.Some unveilings await time’s end,others occur daily, fulfillingthe visions only the stepmother’ssearing eye had foreseen.That child will betray you.Even her sister called her “two-faced”once when they were so little,it hardly seemed she could knowwhat that meant, but her fatherwas furious, such a thing to sayof a sister, such a thing to nametrue in a girl stillin first grade. A girl wholearned at her mother’s flat breast:you can get water from a stone,with a lawyer who’s on commissionwith nothing to lose.When you’re only as goodas your legs are thin,you can just trade your father in—mommy’s found a richer model.

AYWA from Uruguay
Comment 5 of 6, added on February 10th, 2012 at 2:01 PM.
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How I Perceived it in 1975Walking home from mlddie school in my green springjacket on a mid-week day, I heard keyed up voicesof children: "there she is, that’s her." Then a female pack,whose strapped fury arrived on the heel of my personalspace, allowed their ill-informed mind to work up ordersin tobacco stained mouths: "hit her, hit her!"The leash came undone."She did it, she did it!""Hit her, hit, hit, hit!"All I could force from quivering lips, between blowsto the face, arms and legs: "I didn’t do it."I wanted to cut-off the unfolding mystery with rubberburning thoughts, but fear, shock, and snaking ragejuggled in the center of that darkening street.My brother, older by 11 months, was 15 feet aheadof that b movie and me. Little did we both knowit is partly how I came to define my value slumpingin the quicksand of events. He did nothing.After leaving the world’s stage, I got home to crymy story out. No one waved fisted words at culpableparents or school officials. The mistaken identityerror would not be blurred by my stock’s outrage.I wanted the unchanged story to widen our filtersand to take the alleged off the shelf.

Adan from Uruguay
Comment 4 of 6, added on March 23rd, 2011 at 10:41 PM.

Im using this poem for my art project! my scene will be about a bus stop, so i choose, this one! Out of all the poems i have read about bus stops, this one is by far the best! Lovee Itt

Briana from United States

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