On the Bus

I have to take the bus
Day after day I slog
Through the ensnaring hands of sleep

I wait
I Listen to instruments trapped in metal boxes
Despite my wool coat
The cold wind brushes my neck
The rain beats down upon my umbrella
My backpack is getting wet

What kind of world is this

The driver looks at me through deadened eyes
Mechanical man
Around he spins
A Fixed program

I sit on uncomfortable seats

I watch
A girl struggles inside
A spindly stroller heaved up cumbersome stairs
Bruises grace her cheek
She is old already
Too thin child catcher

What kind of world is this