We’d better stop at the bell,
Leave at the stop.
Descend the stairs of puberty
The floor below rising as we go.
One ring to get you off
Jokes the man in uniform,
He’ll say anything to get us lost
We have only Pennies to tinkle.
After the cold chrome
Comes the sway of the tallness
The common stagger to the door
The feet unsure yet gripping.
The bang of axle, spring and pot
The compass useless to the grip,
The tighter hold, the twist of arm
The shudder to the halt.
Alight and thank you driver.
©2013-2019 Christopher Thompson