The Bus

The bus, the bus was waiting for me
Waiting, and yet I still didn’t want it to come
The steps were too steep, and the kids were always screaming or laughing
The wheels were always covered in mud, but how?
They never ventured off the road to school and home again
Why, why are the windows tinted so much
That only outwards you can see, can tell if they are staring
I always try to sit alone, but the seats are always taken eventually 
They always whisper behind me, and I always listen as best as is good
The seats always embody a scar or stain, never to fade 
The walkways are always full of bags, you have to trek carefully
I don’t like the bus, and I don’t think it likes me

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