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A Bus Ride
 I had bought a newspaper in town and was taking the bus home,
 a half an hours ride up to my village.  I looked at the headlines 
and noticed the paper had no date, were I reading yesterday’s 
today`s news or tomorrow`s?  The bus was empty this afternoon 
and it struck how silent it ran could only hear the swishing sound of
 rubber against the asphalted road.
Then the bus stopped for the first time on this journey outside 
my house, so many flowers now in November, my dog sat on
 the steps waiting just for me. The bus door opened with a sigh,
but the dog didn`t run to me.  I hesitated something was wrong it
 was the same house, yet not the same this one looked immaterial
the flowers were pale; this was a copy or a painting forgotten at
 a rural art exhibition arranged by a local culturally interested GP.
 Not my village, I said to the driver and sat down 
“Are you sure?” the driver asked I didn’t answer and the bus rolled on.
 Opened the newspaper it now had the right day and it was Monday.

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