The Bus Stop

The little Seine holds the ducks hostage

Under the blood orange skies

While two women on a balcony

Pop a bottle of champagne

Letting the cold plastic cork

Soar over the less fortunate 

On bar stools and stone benches

Celebrating the fact that life

Had failed us all 

And underneath them in the bar

The men buzz around like suicidal honey bees

Looking to stab the first opening they see

While the pollen-less women

Cross and uncross their fat, sweaty legs

And the entry-level European hipsters

Dance across the street without looking both ways

Pretending not to care that it had started raining

While an old man on a rusted bicycle

Waited patiently at a stop light

Even though there wasn't a car in sight

Holding up his prized mechanical machine

With one hand and an umbrella in the other

Broken down like a piece of prose with

Line breaks masquerading as a poem

And when the blood orange sky soiled herself

Like a broken black ink pen I still sat waiting

For my bus as an adjective-less car drove by

Without her lights on and I considered 

Warning her but I couldn't speak the language

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Jameson Stewart enjoys leaving messages in a bottle in his bathtub, frequent Nerudian slips when discussing romance and cold weather. He believes the best part of opening a bottle of champagne is that you then must drink it in its entirety, and the best part of writing poetry is submitting it to editors for rejection.