Hey guys, I wrote this prose poem tonight while riding the bus home from school. The driver was a real warthog, and he inspired me instantly. I'd like to dedicate this to him, then. Goodnight, sweet prince.
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The bus driver looked at me with a glint of anger and jealousy.
That I, in my youth, might collect myself upon his bus, listening to my music, and so callous as to smile at him, was too much to take.
As I prepared a seat for myself, the driver sped away, jerking the bus beneath my feet.
This is an odyssey, capable only of seeing through windows in the dark.
I couldn’t tell why the bus driver thought so ill of me; I slid carefully into a seat and rested my textbooks beside me.
I would shortly write away with the rhythm of potholes and local transit idiots.
Perhaps cute girls as well, or artists, whichever should be.
And you know, he’s not so bad – the driver.
He talks to people, but like a dog, and he closes his eyes, but like a toad.
Sorry; it’s his mustache.
Makes him look pathetic.
And he growls, I suspect.
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