Unfortunately, because I agreed,

chained myself to this lifelong covenant

to one’s great angst, the angst of failure,

I am successful. Maybe the air that

I breathe is stale with fear, as if I was 

naïve enough to believe that last week’s

message wasn’t clear; everything’s

wrong with staying here; a place where

success is farther than failure is near.

Unfortunately, they knew. I was laden

with pressure, body ailing from a substance

so strong, acid wouldn’t be able to gradually

rip it apart. The stop’s Red Maple looks as

good as new. Born maybe the day that

I came to the neighborhood. 

Who am I kidding?

It’s probably older than half the residents here.

Yet, it swam with me through the Erie,

guided by a beating heart.

It came with over the Grand Canyon,

a precipice of precipitous challenges.

It played with through the Super Bowl,

pushed me down onto the ball, propelling me into the 

end zone.

Mom’s advice was to take an umbrella with me 

to school, waiting by the bus stop with a piece of 

cloth over my head.

Grandma laughed it off, telling me that the rain’s

lighter than a swan’s touch, shrugging off the possibility

of catching a cold.

I waited, though, for a response.

I waited, years, for a response.

Bus Stop:

8:34 AM (Monday) — the tree sways like a the Kool-Aid Man; windy day we’re having.

8:32 AM (Tuesday) — nearly missed the bus using the bathroom, clinching those extra four minutes.

8:34 AM (Wednesday) — maybe it’s true; 8:34 AM is the time to beat.

O’ younger me would’ve never 

been swayed by the advent of fearing

the “un-” before successful.

He would’ve simply stayed there

waiting for Stanley, the bus driver, to

stop by the morning’s pick-up.