A Schoolbus in Someone’s Yard with a Tree Growing through the Roof

 

It’s not there to be made into a poem,

Captured in a photograph, remembered in a song;

It’s not there to symbolize or signify,

Conveniently enciphering 

What you already believed.

 

It’s there for a thousand reasons,

None of them to do with you,

And when you gun your engine and pass on,

 

It’ll be there still, equally indifferent;

More lucid than a poem, truer than a photograph,

And stronger than any symbol –

Carved in memory till you die.