Yellow Bus

Daddy once got

  a clunker bus

at an auto auction

  and parked it

in the field

  behind our house.

He buffed tires,

  washed windows,

scraped

  black letters

off the dimpled side

  with a knife.

  

We kids sat

  on green seats,

pretending,

  as if to ride on

  

a ragged road

  that jolted us hard

like jumping beans.

  Mama quizzed Daddy

  

about his plans

  for a school bus

that stuck out to her

  like a yellow cold sore!

Daddy ripped out

  some seats

and tacked down carpet

  inside the family camper

  

that we’d vacation in

  at a campground

every summer. Meanwhile,

  the bus became

   

a summer fort where

  my brother and sister fought.

I smoked cigars in it

  habitually.

Daddy stockpiled

  odd car parts

by the emergency door.

  One night, a spooky man,

 

old Wild Bill

  with bloodshot eyes

and a grizzled beard like ZZ Top,

  made an offer.

Daddy told him

   his vision to transform

the good interior

   into a camper,

 

but reckoned to sell

   for the right price

to make Mama happy.

   Next evening,

Wild Bill returned

   with $500 cash.

He drove off

    in that gas-gulping thing.

Daddy watched his dream

    roll down the road a ways.

-Kevin J. McDaniel
Poet, Pulaski Virginia