The Voice

By George F. Horne

1989

Four-thirty comes, I rise from bed
To face another day.
A fleeting thought shoots though my head:
"Lord, stand by me," I pray.

A shower, and then I quickly dress,
Gulp down a bite of food;
A hasty kiss to chase the stress
And set a pleasant mood.

Into the cold, dark morn I trudge
To check my yellow bus.
The door's so cold it may not budge,
But yet, I dare not fuss.

The starter grinds; the engine groans
And finally purrs to life.
A switch is thrown...the heater drones
To dull Old Winter's knife.

All lights are on, both front and back.
They flash and dim and brighten.
The hand brake's next: a bit too slack...
A turn or two to tighten.

No seats are torn; rear door's alright;
So outside next to check
"Too cold!" I think. "No one's in sight.
I'll skip it. What the heck!"

But then The Voice - I know the sound -
Says, "My son, don't you dare!
Get Out! Complete your walk-around!
You've little time to spare!"

And so I do! I kick each tire.
I find no lug nuts missing,
No leaking oil, no dangling wires,
No steam from hoses hissing.

Soon on the road, I think ahead
Of what's for me in store
Before at last I slip from bed
And hear The Voice once more.

@ 2001 Copyright George F. Horne. All rights reserved. Reprinted with permission.