by O'Connor Quaino
I
Yackers at the back - of the bus
A.M. people on the bean of choice
Cutting is the voice most imposed
A colloquy, soliloquy, the hush
To rush and close
As each rank and file is deposed.
A clique a klatch of speech
This is a movable feast
And Who rides past their stop
To remain the weasel and not the pop?
II
Nook lookers quiet
As a mouse,
Their hobbies are secreted and mundane
Not so pedestrian their choise
To eschew the noise
Their overriding poise ever maintained.
III
Some are cheerful; some are glum
But no dead-beats on this run
Coifs are set
and hair is wet
Boots and laces
Done up for the day
Social graces
All but zipped away.
IV
In his turn, the driver—
Never more than stern--
Takes a jam or hops a curb in stride--
Our roles are set as distance met
And, oh, no transfers honored on this ride.
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