Wednesday, October 19, 2016
The Night Bus
The Western fire is burning down to cinders;
Retreating traffic is subsumed in immolation.
And I see dark shapes pass me on the roadway,
Born from darkness, to darkness they return.
It's ages since the brightly lit buses came,
In sunshine, festooned with bright balloons,
I had bright hopes setting out that morning,
But the sun's low and I'm stranded at dusk.
Once they scheduled many buses on this route,
And from among them I could pick and chose.
But I've missed the last bus from Desolation
So I'll watch as the day burns down to ruin.
Now the cheerful riders have passed beyond,
They seemed to look past me in the gloaming.
But I've walked this road before at night,
The whole way from Prospect to Desolation.
Copyright 1016 Brent Hightower
*image public domain