the last bus home

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.

I’m home!