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A Quarterly Journal
Jeffrey Woodward, Founder & General Editor
Volume 9, Number 1, March 2015


Peter Butler
London, England, UK

The Bus Not Taken

We run away, my love and I, choosing the tidal path, skipping and laughing past the rat-infested island, the pub holding a wake, onward down river to where a barge is moored, swans pointing us to a field where we wash our footprints in an unmapped stream, which we follow as the sun goes down, vowing to return one day as different people, bodies and souls reborn, emotions explored, spirits enriched, futures determined . . .

But then we hear our mothers calling, kicking up a fuss. They've discovered the graffiti we scribbled on the bus.

a kid's glove
left on the wall
sparrows peck in vain



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