He sprinted around the corner to see it depart,
the flatulent yellow bus,
its windows inhabited by smug, successful faces.
A few noticed him,
his coat unzipped and only one mitten,
standing in a cloud of his own breath.
Failure is complete only when it is witnessed.
A little snow, so light it seemed not to fall
but to drift down, sideways, and up too,
pausing inquiringly before his eyes.
Perhaps the snow would eventually
end up on the ground. Or perhaps
it would be called back at the last moment
by a mother who insists
on a kiss in the middle of chaos.
The bus moves through the blue morning
lit up like a traveling theater,
a shadow puppet in every window.
It always seems they are all against you,
shouting to the driver
“Leave! Leave! He’s almost here!”