I love this poem. In the spring of 2006, one of my best friends died of a heart attack and at his memorial one our friends recited this poem, after seeing it on the bus. It simply and eloquently described our experience of losing someone who was always “there,” and then one day, wasn’t. This poem is very personal to me. It is plain and melancholy and soothing to see it often.

— Harmony Separation

I am a regular Tri-Met rider. After months of noticing—and admiring—“I Confess” on bus trips, I was surprised one Sunday to hear it being read from the pulpit of the First Unitarian Church. It was the weekly reading. After the numerous encounters with the poem, the delight, the cleverness, the truisms it had brought me, there was a special meaning for me that Sunday. It brought me even closer to the work, and I was glad.

— Mark I Confess

I remember this poem from way back in ‘97. I love the memories of riding the 14 from Hawthorne to PSU during the early years of my living here in Portland. “What a cool idea, poems to read on the buses,” I thought. And now I see poetry cards in other city transit systems that I visit, like New York.

— Barbara Sandanista Avioncitos

Another poetry in motion story I wanted to share from yesterday in class. This one kid, Malcolm, raises his hand, [I’m talking about poems being everywhere out in the world, it’s just a matter of looking, am speaking more figuratively, but he takes it literally] and he shares this story about being on the bus listening to his ipod, when this guy “looking like an alcky” sits down next to him, all scruffy with a long grey beard, asks Malcolm if he’s seen some particular poem on the buses. Malcolm says he sort of nods but he’s not so sure about this old, homeless looking guy, so he keeps listening to his ipod, but the guy keeps talking. He says his name is Happy and he says he’s a poet. At which point Malcolm removes his ear piece and says [this part killed me] “I’m a poet, too.” Happy asks if Malcolm would like to hear some of his poems, Malcolm says yes, and the guy reads a poem about war, one about peace, and one about police brutality. THEN Malcolm pulls a poem out of his pocket he wrote in class that morning [funny side story is I’m having trouble getting Malcolm to keep his poems in his writing folder and he’s lost a couple, but this is an example of wow, good thing his poem wasn’t in his writing folder!] and he reads Happy his poem about lies. Then Malcolm says the bus reached his stop just as he was finishing reading, he folded up his poem, put it back in his pocket, stepped off the bus.

— Kirsten Rian, Writers in the Schools teacher