In drizzling rain, ten patient people form a queue
One bus passes, then another: “Sorry, no room here”
With torrents downfall, six umbrellas blossom
The bus to city’s center arrives
Twenty people now converge on one point
Ordered rank turns into San Juan Hill
Collecting bones and baggage twelve of us board
Bell rings, “I’m descending.” “Excuse me.”
There goes today’s shoeshine
A playful driver, a screeching halt
A hundred people swing like hogs at slaughter
In a seat below, two children sit
They smile, day brightens, skyline opens.
© 1974, Kenneth Koziol. All rights reserved.
