Bus drivers don’t like answering questions.
I never ask, afraid they’ll scowl
and mutter something I don’t hear,
the line behind me swelling with resentment.
I get on and ride, hoping it gets me downtown,
or somewhere close.
When I like the neighborhood,
I reach up, pull the chord and scramble off.
Sometimes I enter a building, sometimes I walk
until I see a park.
Once I asked a cop, but he growled
“Get a map sonny” and I backed off.
By then I was hungry, and there was food
for sale all up and down the road.
I shopped for tee shirts and hats.
I was lost until I saw signs for the zoo,
and then I was glad to know exactly where I was.
My fingers were sore and red, but my feet felt wonderful.
I went to the monkey house, I fed peanuts
to the elephants, I watched a sailor take a swipe
at a bear, which ripped a long cut on his outstretched hand.
If you have any
thoughts on this poem, Steve
Klepetar would be pleased to hear them.