No one paused but me
for Otis at the crossing,
although he had a yellow sign
that ordered everyone to stop
and let pass the train.
I had books shelved beneath my arms,
old gentlemen full of dignity
whom I attended through the night.
I weighed less than they.
Once, when Otis left his shed
and on came the train,
I saw the bus to my headmaster leaving,
ran to cross,
was stopped before the engine
by the hand of Otis.
Then from my bookshelf arms
fell Cicero and Homer
and Otis laughed above their bodies
on the ground.
They whom I with awe attended,
who robed themselves in heavy cloth
that smelled of study halls
fell to him
whose ebony hid in denim
and smelled of everyday.
For the first time I saw Otis
and counted him among them,
the old gentlemen I carried with me.
I have since buried Cicero and Homer,
but oddly I still pause
for Otis at the crossing.
