Poem #2,733 | Last Bus
I’ll travel over her face
without her knowing –
seated there –
such an
array of clean straight
teeth
[my hands’ll run
over her in my dream –
a nudge into slumber
& smoothness unfelt] –
Tippings of beer spark
my mind around –
this
last bus home thumps
over pot holes & whips
bent branches back by
double-decker height –
reckless deer’ll wait to
jump into headlamp’s
thwack –
roadkill is an
awaited thrill for quick
bucks at held wheels –
they haven’t seen how
much of a disfeature a
leaping roe’ll do –
we’ll
wake at our terminus –
disembark having slept
momentarily & dreamt
of shabby stuff & death