Last Bus

by Slim Volumes

fuelled by something
no one likes or admits
the last bus is late

a taste of what might come

the beast gasps
stoops
lips you aboard

overlooking your pass
its driver steers you
from friend and argument
from city light
to suburb dark
so dark
you see only within

old ads curl up the ceiling
their yellowed things past use
these passengers are familiar
you've ignored them on elevators
through narrow halls, in the doctor's antechamber
a nun knits booties for unborn babes

the driver spreads over-shoulder gibber
he's attracted to bright
Tims for a pee and coffee
steal behind his wheel
this coach is warm and grumbly
eager to move on
you are last on this bus
and you do not know your stop

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