Our Bus Is One Of Passengers…: A Poem


Our bus is one of passengers

unable to contain their glee

at being shuttled to their oblivion:

They threw their maps out

the windows a long time ago

and holler obscure quotes

at the top of their lungs

as the bus roars around

sharp corners.


“We will strip naked at the

signposts of death so that we

can throw these worldly rags

to the wind!”


One day the bus pulled over–

they said there was a mechanical

disturbance, but of this I cannot

be sure.


As the bus began to rumble

forward after a short convalescence,

a cry from outside brought all

of the passengers to the windows.

He had run out of the brush and

was now still running, one arm

extended in the air.


“Please!” he shouted.

“Let me join you!”


The bus squealed to a

halt and he climbed in.

The man was young with

longish hair and looked to be

in horrible condition.


We gaped at him wordlessly.

He was like a breathing

column of dust!

When he collapsed we tried

to resuscitate him, but he died

with a handsome smile on his face.


In his filthy pocket was a note.

“There is no time for telling–

only showing.”

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