Sonnet / Bus 130

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.

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