I catch the number 91, to a pasture,
more polite; than the usual shite,
I call my “home-grown moan tome!”
The electronic swish of the doors
open wide; like a beautiful smile, and
then I hand over my competitively
priced £4 fare; to get there, to that
much needed breath of fresh air.
I am satisfied with the ride, as only
a few of us dwell, and we do so quietly;
either revelling with a silent grin,
or wallowing with a muted grimace, thus
dancing or fighting in our private worlds.
Though in age, I am singled out: a babe,
amongst a grey collective, we all do get along,
for we know when to speak, and when
to give discretion, so there’s no aggression,
for our co-existence; is as smooth as the
engine’s whir, and as welcome as the
countryside our eyes hungrily digest.
As our stops come into focus, we all take
notice, that our mutual respect was not
bogus, thus, we act in our customary
ways, to celebrate happier days,
to look forward to tell of where we have
trod, but for now, our goodbye, is a courteous nod…
Bus folk, bus folk, you’re my kind of people,
I really do hope that soon, there’s a sequel!