there is a bus that runs
through the heart of this
city at midnight
it is filled with no one
but a few stragglers
me included and the man
who drives all day
and into the night past
the same buildings the same
signs who hears the same
voices and the same complaints
and smells the same gin
on the breath of the same
clothes worn for a week
there is the desolation
I was looking for tucked
under the blue vinyl seat
next to a piece of gum
I place it up to the window
a sign for the cars
the ones going somewhere
showing them its okay
they dont have to worry
for their exhaust
is another mans air
especially a poets
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