Poems of Passing Fancy

The Bus

I sit on the lonely seats.

The wheels creak as we go.

My thin jacket gives no heat,

as we drive though the white snow.

The driver looks to me

I'm nearly at my stop.

I look through the frosted glass and see,

the great tall mountain top.

The creaking wheels roll.

The doors sigh open.

I stand and walk, I've paid my toll.

Mx hands touch metal, so thin.

I leave all my fears

Snow falls like ash.

Sorrowful music plays in my ears.

Cymbals give a ringing crash.

The great Overture.

I walk along the gravel road

A canon shoots into the future.

My hands move in code.

The bus wobbles ahead.

Its lustre long gone.

Its paint, chipped red.

Its wheels moving on,

like that of a song.

The Bus.