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.