October 1998
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Poetry Page

sitting at the bus station

the bus left forty minutes ago
and just now she looks out on the street. 
to the rain making rings
in puddles by the curb.
to the citations and the escorts
pushing up waves with their tires.
her elbows on her knees, hands together,
head bowed forward.
she turns her eyes up
and her forehead breaks out in wet.
the soaked strands of hair
zip along her windbreaker.
the toes slosh about in the 
canvas-topped shoes.
His hand is still with her.
She feels it, she holds it.
and she looks outside 
for the first time today.

By Dan Strohl


On My Radio

Know what's sad?
45-year old hippies
At alternative rock concerts
Bumming weed off teenagers.

Know what else is sad?
People who say 
"The Spice Girls make good music"
When in fact, They 
don't play any instruments at all.

Know what's REALLY sad?
When Rolling Stone compared
Silverchair to Pearl Jam.
I stopped my subscription right then.

By Anonymous


Toronto

We wanted to go
To get lost in the snow
To speak French, and drink
Large mugs of espresso.

We wanted to ditch our cars
And smoke foreign cigars,
Take a cab or a bus,
and meet Canadian TV stars.

We wanted Canadian guys
And import CD buys
We tried to be tourists
In Canadian disguise.

Well, we got lost in the snow
But stayed at a HoJo,
And ate white toast
While deciding where to go.

We went to the Falls
And the huge-ass mall,
And I sat for hours
Looking for Kids in the Hall.

We loved the exchange rates,
Hated the guard at the gates,
And realized we were too ugly 
For Canadian mates.

When we ran out of cash,
And yes, all our hash,
We spent our last days
In the hotel, crashed.

By Jessica Brandt


Furlong

I don't hate you.
I just hate everything about you.
Your body can stay,
But your mouth has to go.

By Anonymous


Do you have poetry?

Send it on in! It can be romantic, heart-warming, humorous, or epic--we dont care! But if it makes the cut, you'll see it in the next issue of The Shrubbery. E-mail it to submit@theshrubbery.prohosting.com

Note: The Shrubbery now only prints 5 pieces of poetry per month, so don't feel bad if your stuff doesn't make it. Keep sending!!!

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