Ticket to ride.
My shoulder, he couldn’t help drifting to sleep.
I knew it, he knew it: a situation so, so simple.
Beers first, then the homebound bobbing bus.
A late night unwinding at last, twisting, turning,
catching contagious yawns. Easing into eyes,
the Sandman’s sand, an eternity after sunset.
Yes, the gently bobbling bus, our single seats,
crowded down to the last square centimeter.
Two men, tired enough to pardon petty touch,
so what? He fell asleep first; my turn came.
Asleep on a sleeping stranger, I aged slightly.
Hardly homebound in actuality, another route,
a subsequent leg of the trip, transpiring year
after year, until home returns wholeheartedly
to the head or until walking papers are penned.
Aboard the bobbing bus, the old man, myself,
and others continue our bobbing, nodding off
to places only imagined upon exiting ourselves.
No shepherds, a person, a personality, calling.
Punctuality, scrutinizing a naked wrist timely.
Tip-toeing, towards the trap door. Tap tap tap.