The bus goes steadily along,
carrying our reluctance, variegated.
Sometimes there's no longing,
no urge to anything. We stop,
start up and move along again
the routine way.
White, almost, of sky
makes looking a given business;
nothing weathered and no brightness
to speak of, no shining signs. Nothing.
What I resent is us being
on our usual form, dead common
(even the pretty one or two).
We're tricked into a dull humanness,
made to sit still and be bored
for the duration, all samey without thinking.
Even a little hurt, some small vile turn,
wouldn't go amiss.
No chance of bliss, though.
Press the bell in time and off you go.