So like a lullaby, a gentle shush
on summer nights, the hiss of buses braking
at their stop on Watchogue
wafted through my open window
while the dark world pressed against the screen.

Nothing of the night slipped through the metal mesh
except the sounds: the crickets and the 106,
with its air escaping in a weary sigh.
Inside, I lay listening, protected by
the dusty screen and the ring of angels
that I’d I’d conjured out of pareidolic clouds.

Beyond the houses and above-ground pools
the bus continued dropping riders
onto Watchogue and at almost every other stop
until the only ones remaining had to
exit at the Terminal.

The 106 itself then turned around and traced its path
back down the boulevard, picking up and
dropping off along its route. Hissing out its lullaby
and promising its journey wouldn’t end. Assuring me
the night would always stay beyond my window.

Donald Selitti has been writing and publishing for over forty years, most of it in biomedical journals in his field of research. Fo lowing his retirement he has begun to publish his poetry in literary journals. including most recently, Gyroscope Review, Remington Review, and Ink in Thirds.