By Wim Owe
I hold my breath as the
articulated one-eleven bus
turns a full loop just before
the bank, imagining the finesse
it takes for the driver to guide
The right front corner so that it hovers
Just over the sidewalk, without
Scraping the wheel when its turn
Comes around, knowing by the wedge
In the snow how may drivers
Have made it fit before
Wim Owe is a dual citizen from Seattle living in Victoria, BC. You may have met him in a moss-filled basement suite in Vancouver, a dust storm in northern Alberta, or perched atop a spinning curling rock in sweaty, sweaty Gatineau. He’s had poems in Pages Penned in Pandemic, Peaches and Bats, and Slightly West. For private opinions made inadvisably public, see him on Twitter.
