You are driving a bus.
Three people alight.
The swirling fans of autumn surround them
As they move out among the pear-cheeked babes
And dogs with rabes
(six more step off)
And sticky stacks of newspap’ packs
And strolling cars
And men from Mars
And girls with weights on roller skates.
The light is red.
Four more aboard.
Their leaden bags are gnawing thoughts
As they move down past taken seats
A man that reeks,
(and nine step on)
A mother’s legs and ciggy dregs
An apple core
Upon the floor
Here ends the wait, they hesitate
For some unseemly puddle on the seat.
A dozen on,
A dozen off,
This man will drink,
That man will cough.
At midnight comes a quiet bliss,
And youngster now I ask you this:
What color are the bus driver’s eyes?
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