To a young girl crying on the bus

In a thousand years

buses would be lost to memory

except they learn you cried on one.


In ten years

you will laugh to think

that you wept on a bus for this.


In a hundred years

your grandchildren will feel

this same emotion on different vehicles.


And oh, the edge of the night,

the bus drawing you away:

feel, think, memory.


A thousand years ago

your ancestors managed living

well enough to have descendants.


Ten years ago

when you were a child playing

could you have imagined tonight?


A hundred years ago

someone else was weeping

in this city, for these reasons.


There are strangers all around you

the bus is drawing you further, further,

weeping, playing, living,

feel, think, memory.


21st September 2017