The Bus
My bare feet graze the trolley’s metal floor. The apricot-flamed scarf winds its way from head to toe, a cotton shield, and tucks lightly around you: my silent, hidden son. You are quiet and eager. My eyes dart, diligent, from your eyes to chin to forehead, tracing the well-worn circuit of you. My gaze is only yours, and you, my copper-gauzed world. We sit in a row on the pressed wood bench: dolls on a playroom shelf, our tourists queued up outside the museum. Lost in thoughts and dreams. The split seconds between the now and the next are frozen in frame-- your tongue darts back and forth-- your coo a small mewing-- we are unsuspecting passengers for one moment more, and then the seconds will collapse into each other, and we will follow. Catherine Ruffing Drotleff A non-profit fundraiser by day, and a poet by night, Catherine Ruffing Drotleff writes to place herself in the world and to observe that place over time and space. A Midwesterner by birthright and a Chicagoan by choice, Catherine's work has appeared in Rattle and Blue Hour Magazine.
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May 2025
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