Public Bus #1

The monks go past the tannoy music brash
I hope that heaven has a better sound
The moto piled so high it seems quite rash
And yet those laden wheels are turning round
The bus without a time is on its route
And as I board I see her on the floor
The ancient lady calmly peeling fruit
Her legs are crossed her knife is quick and fast
As through the traffic we must slowly crawl
She rises from the floor and stands at last
Papaya peeled is shared with one and all
The public bus is unpredictable
The journey every day is wonderful

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Author: thepoetautist

A Gay poet of fifty odd years who is currently living in Cambodia.

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