The Madman and the Bus

We order spaghetti, you with mushrooms,
me, racy with olives and garlic,
in a little spa nestled in the Black Forest.

On a bench across from us,
a madman raves
as he waits for the bus.

“He’ll stop,” you say,
grating Parmesan,
“when it arrives.”

“I know the mad,”
I answer, sipping wine.
“My father was mad—
they don’t take buses.”

The madman goes on.
He must be known in the village,
for some passersby smile,
indulge him while he
bats imaginary flies.

The server brings more wine.
With your blue eyes,
you cast me a glance
when the madman booms
“Scheisse!”

I now know and don’t use
a spoon for my spaghetti,
nor cut it with a knife,
like most Americans.
I twirl the strands
while bits of garlic
cling to the sauce;
bring the fork to my mouth.

The bus wheezes to a stop
and the madman climbs on,
taking his stories of a world
gone completely bonkers
with him up… up

to where the dark firs
of the forest listen.

Roger Bonner is a Swiss writer who grew up in California. His poetry has appeared in Ink Sweat & Tears, The Galway Review, Envoi, The Drunken Boat, The High Window, Delmarva Review, The American Journal of Poetry, Ascent Aspirations, and Lighten Up Online, among others. He also writes short plays and has written a children’s book and a satire about Switzerland. Find Roger via @bonnerr.bsky.social