The Greyhound bus is nothing like the train,
it has less legroom, and it smells like piss.
I’d much rather travel somewhere by plane
to give the cigarette stench a sure miss;
to avoid conversations on drug use
and to get to my next locale on time.
I’d sleep without overhearing abuse
and even score a free glass of wine.
The only wine about on the greyhound
lies in bloated bellies, swigged beforehand.
Released with raging force and hellish sound,
waking crying babies, Hell-on-wheels, on land.
But then I see New York there, standing distant
and all of my complaints vanish in an instant.