BUS STOP

 

Sometimes I am so predictable
I might as well be a bus

Or maybe a handshake
Between two insecure businessmen

A handshake goes on to live a life
Free of the hands that made it

Though it haunts them with desire,
With obligation, it very often fails

Somewhere in a dark grove of sharp rocks
All the handshakes are living and breathing

Sucking in air
Hoping it contains hands

Dangling like vines
In a voluptuous southern wind

You better hope
The bus doesn’t take you there

Sometimes I stop
For ants