busride 400

in the upholstered seat

of a 400-bus

that pulls the landscape

left and right

by its long hair

with changing speed

it’ll stir the poet’s thoughts

that percolate like fresh

ground coffee beans

hit by steaming water –

a wondrous day

a spray-painted sky

in pale-blue

at a bus stop the artist

sent-off as a postcard

wake-up dear poet

see the onion-shaped

turret of the hamlet’s

solely church?

it’s high time to prepare

for the exit next.

in a few seconds uphill

the acceleration flat-out

the poet will fall thru’ the

bi-parting doors

and passed two-lane

moving cars of weekenders

from the city

who are used to unusual

events at forgotten hamlets

they’ll stir-up to new life.

the poet has succeeded

to enter his writing pad

and settles down to some

gunpowder-tea

and whole-wheat bites.

busride.edirsub

zoltanzelan

zjg-poetry’20.

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