My buddy Johnny was fast. Faster than a school bus even. Because one day gettin’ outta school the bus driver had a problem with my buddy. And he wouldn’t let him on the bus home. A few of us guys squawked about Johnny gettin’ the bums rush but it didn’t do no good. The bus driver called the shots. He closed them folding doors and went on his way. So did Johnny. Our high school was about a mile-and-a-half away if you were driving the streets to our bus stop. We got off and on

You step away one day, and the separation doesn’t hurt much. There’s no scar to speak of. When you’re removed from it for a while, the longing doesn’t really appear until you’re exposed to it again. And then you realize how much you want it back. When I saw the yellow bus in the parking lot, I thought maybe I should pull over. And yet I wasn’t certain what would happen or how I’d feel if I did. I was hungry and had a few miles to go before I reached home. But forces I’m famil

Walt Whitman was really pissed off about the curve ball. In the poet’s prime, in a developmental stage of baseball, around the time of early unrest when Blues battled Grays, the pitcher lobbed the ball underhanded to the batter. His objective was to allow the batter to club the ball, making play more lively. A baseball game without many hits is today the major complaint of someone who professes to dislike the game because nothing much happens. Because it’s boring, they say.