The summers with Dad
when I was a kid
started at that Greyhound station,
that last stop before departure.
It smelled like diesel,
sadness,
and old clothes
that had been out of style for years.
My brother and I
holding tickets
like they meant something,
like paper could decide
where you belonged.
A lump in my throat
that didn’t leave,
no matter how much soda pop
I tried to wash it down with.
Strangers everywhere.
Men with eyes
lost on thousands of miles of highway
and headlight madness.
Odd-looking women dressed in layers,
clutching their purses
like every man was a thief.
Time has stolen a lot from them.
A kid, red-faced,
crying into a sleeve
his parents ignore.
We boarded
like cattle
headed for the slaughterhouse.
The engine grinded to life
like it was tired already,
like it knew the trip was too long.
We pulled out slow.
An electric hum stayed in the air.
City lights bleeding
into the rearview mirror.
I watched raindrops race down wet glass.
The one I bet on
always lost.
Small conversations buzzing—
shit I didn’t understand.
Then a soft silence.
And the violence of motion.
Outside the window—
Iowa flattening itself out
beneath cornfields and acres of land,
expansive,
like it had finally stopped arguing
with the sky.
Somewhere toward the back of the bus
a man chain-smoked cigarettes.
Greyhound rules didn’t matter much
out there in the dark.
He just stared out the window,
like the road had answers
he’d been asking for too long—
answers he couldn’t find
in women or booze.
A portable radio hissed in his lap,
volume low enough
to feel like a secret
or an oath.
Simon and Garfunkel drifted through it—
Homeward Bound, maybe,
Scarborough Fair, maybe something
about love and leaving.
Soft songs about being lost,
about coming back too late,
about people who change over time
or never really arrive
at the same place more than once.
It didn’t feel out of place.
It felt like it belonged there—
like the whole bus already knew the song
in the fiber of the seats
and the rain-soaked windows.
Paul Simon’s soprano voice
mixed like a potion
with diesel loneliness,
tire noise,
and the steady ache of distance
stretching over highways
mile after mile.
And for a while, nobody talked at all.
I watched horses eating hay
on farms sliding past the window.
I bought candy bars
at little stops along the way,
then boarded the bus again
and watched the world
slowly disappear
into its own sadness.
-
Author:
Thomas W Case (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: April 21st, 2026 08:21
- Comment from author about the poem: New long-form poetry reading on YouTube—featuring work from Aluminum Cowboys and a sneak peek from Searching for Nod. Watch: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cNzeVyF51Og Books on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/stores/Thomas-W.-Case/author/B0CL2RKDGX?_encoding=UTF8&pd_rd_w=xsU45&content
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 23
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange, Friendship, sorenbarrett, Paul Bell, Mutley Ravishes, Kevin Hulme, arqios
Offline)
Comments8
Thomas, this carries a slow, unfolding sadness that never forces itself…just builds through detail, mile by mile. The people, the motion, the quiet moments…all of it settles into something that feels deeply real and hard to shake. Strong, grounded writing, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Thank you.
Most welcome, my friend.
a powerful poem. of sadness, your poem captures the bittersweet memories of childhood journeys taken with a father, exploring themes of nostalgia, loss, and the passage of time. It reflects on how travel, particularly by Greyhound bus, serves as a metaphor for life's journey and the emotional weight carried by both the poet and the other passengers.
Thanks
A wonderful poem Thomas that brings back memories of summer rides. I can feel the heat and smell the odors of the ride. The countryside rolls on outside the window. A epic feel to this poem.
Thank you.
You are most welcome Thomas
The long journey on the bus is a journey of observation and marvel.
The young couple up the back snogging, kids in the middle running riot, the woman staring out the window running away, but never really getting there.
All of human behavior is on the bus, and the observer takes it all in, and when boredom sets in, and the raindrops game plays out, it's only then do you listen to someone elses pain that plays out in tunes.
Thank you.
The rich observational detail made the journey pass very quickly. No boredom on that trip.
Great experience.
Thanks
Enjoyed the journey in this Poem. Can't go wrong with Simon and Garfunkel.
A good Write.
Thank you.
Had a summer or two like this, myself. Thanks for taking me back🙏🕊️
Thank you.
a wonderful memory etched in the mind, coming forth now in poetic form...what a great ride...
Thank you.
To be able to comment and rate this poem, you must be registered. Register here or if you are already registered, login here.