Waiting for the bus

Several years ago, I wrote this little blurb in my small notebook I carry with me. My dog Toby (a bichon frise) and I were sitting on the bench outside my daughter's house, waiting for the school bus. Unfortunately, I didn't date it (the one writer's sin), but this is what I said (unedited).

"Toby and I sitting on the bench, waiting for the bus. How does he know what we're waiting for? But it's as if he does know. Would be a good picture--two white heads, turned the same way--waiting for one small blond boy, we both adore."

This morning I'm thinking it might work better in verse form. Let's see how that goes.


Toby and I sit on the bench,
waiting for the bus.
How does he know what we're waiting for?
But it's as if he does know.

Would be a good picture--
two white heads,
turned the same way--
waiting for one small blond boy,
we both adore.


Pretty bad poetry, but truth, nevertheless.