The Flying Busman

The Flying Busman keeps his poems on the small elevated landing at the front of the bus. Two of them are folded into paper airplanes.

A woman sitting next to me engages him in conversation. Something about a writing group that meets at a Wegman’s in Camillus every Thursday night. She’s holding a big box.

We near my stop at the Press. I pull the yellow cord that decorates the sides of the bus like garland. The Flying Busman stops. I grab one of his poems as I exit. “Thank you,” I say. He smiles under his graying mustache that curls up at the ends. “You’re welcome, have a good one dear,” he says.

The woman with the big box follows me off the bus. This must be her stop too.

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