the last bus home
glowworms quiver in all colours,
drooled behind the wet windows
of winter that just got on the bus, and
is sitting somewhere behind me now;
and the only warm sense is my inner world.
hook the hookworm out of the night,
depart on the chance
that it would carp no shoulder,
or the wet spell of the necromancer.
akin to which footfall to chose
on the wet cobbled way of a
day sapped sherbet rare
upon a street of gardens
de-dentured by their shinning cars.
still on the last bus home,
emptied of hands the bells
hang pink and waiting for the stops
that will never be;
and me? i wait for the fogged
stop to appear through the window
wiped sleeve sleazy, and i will alight
and say good night to the driver.