A Poem – Night Bus

by V. Buritsch-Tompkins

How early in the morning
the night bus does arrive with

its everpresent groaning
and screeching, whining slide

next to the waiting passenger
in an orderly que

anxious, thanking you sir,
arriving on the level two

with the sparkling twinkle of blackness
pocked with dots of stars

cut with a giantess
laying in amongst the cars

her glittering dress of rectangles
windows and streetlamps both

populated by human tassels
hiding in the folds of cloth