Here I sit upon a bench,
Musing in retrospect
As the clock ticks by, the full moon high,
A lamppost Space erects.
My patience withers away
As I wait long for the shuttle
To taketh away beyond break of day,
Exempting all bitter rebuttals.
Every bus stopping in turn
Rejects my ticket, null and void,
But I am certain, behind closed curtain,
The world chuckles at my being toyed.
For, as it turns, it turns forth time,
Turning man to turn in turn –
Yet the faster the spin, the sharper the wind
And the hotter its friction will burn.
But I stand alone on this layer of space,
Watching infernos onward spread
As every tear escaping down laments the many crowns
That tilt ‘til they tumble from head.
I lie silently in this manner
As they meander on by, single-file,
My despair distributed amongst them,
Solemn procession stretched for miles.
Days upon days, weeks upon weeks,
Travelers stumble through bus doors.
Left out in the dark, my exclusion unbearably stark
That my very essence is abhorred.
Hither a bus rolls up without warning,
A young lady in charge at the wheel –
She beckons with kind understanding,
Her smile a thirst-quenching reel.
I rise to meet and to greet her.
She takes my ticket in hand
And shreds it with faltering gesture
Despite what had always been planned.
She scoots just a tiny bit over
So in her I’d know I’ll confide –
I sat down with her, shoulder to shoulder,
And we both took in silence the ride.
Morning's Early Dark 