As promised, we are beginning a new series on Slog of bus-related poetry written by our readers. We begin with one that was way beyond our word count.

“The Bus Trolley Electric” (With apologies to Walt Whitman)

by Christina Smith

I sing the bus trolley electric
the armies of the commuting engulf me
they will not let me off till the aisles are clear
and till those the grizzled, soused, unfettered of lumpish sanity have had their conversational due.

Should not those who corrupt the sanitation of the bus conceal themselves more so than they do?
Are not those who defile the seats and corners with urine as bad as they who so defile their own selves or the bodies and souls of others?
For the bus, vessel of protection and transport is an extension of the body and of the soul
For what meaning has the soul without its matrix of protection and of transport?

The rider or driver of the bus balks account
The bus itself balks account
The rider is perfect, the driver is perfect, the close salami odor of the bus in June is perfect.

All these are perfect expressions of themselves in the fullness of their vitality and ardor,
I am the harried driver, my magnificent nostrils flare at one with his at our righteous ire for the jammed coin machine and for the cryptic urinators.
I straddle the vinyl with the rheumy passenger as he coughs loudly on the back of my head—each and every glitter drop of spittle on my hair a fit gem to crown the coiffure of holy Hera.
And the squeaky accordion hinge betwixt the sections puts to shame angelic choruses and the slickly oiled cogs of capitalist endeavor.
The fellow crunching corn nuts in a corner surpasses any concrete construct.
And the passenger cradling his beloved guinea pig is enough to soften sextillions of cynics.

6 replies on “Midnight Bus Poetry”

  1. With my high starched collar and my high top shoes

    And my hair piled high upon my head,

    I went to lose a jolly hour on the trolley,

    And lost my heart instead.

    With his light brown derby and his bright green tie,

    He was quite the handsomest of men.

    I started to yen, so I counted to ten,

    Then I counted to ten again.

    Clang, clang, clang went the trolley,

    Ding, ding, ding went the bell.

    Zing, zing, zing went my heart strings,

    From the moment I saw him I fell.

    Chug, chug, chug went the motor,

    Bump, bump bump went the brake,

    Thump, thump, thump went my heart strings,

    When he smiled, I could feel the car shake.

    He tipped his hat and took a seat.

    He said he hoped he hadn’t stepped upon my feet.

    He asked my name; I held my breath;

    I couldn’t speak because he scared me half to death.

    Buzz, buzz, buzz went the buzzer,

    Plop, plop, plop went the wheels,

    Stop, stop, stop went my heart strings.

    As he started to go, then I started to know

    How it feels when the universe reels.

    The day was bright, the air was sweet.

    The smell of honeysuckle charmed you off your feet.

    You tried to sing, but couldn’t squeak.

    In fact you loved him so you couldn’t even speak.

    Buzz, buzz, buzz went the buzzer,

    Plop, plop, plop went the wheels.

    Stop, stop, stop went my heart strings.

    As he started to leave I took hold of his sleeve

    With my hand, and as if it were planned,

    He stayed on with me,

    And it was grand just to stand

    With his hand holding mine

    To the end of the line.

  3. Southbound entunnelled 150.
    Tired waif on opposite bench.

    I wasn’t staring,
    She sat up,
    Mush smile,
    Jacket pulls away,
    I can read her shirt.

    Rainbow glitter cursive
    pink cotton background
    her caption says ‘You Suck’.

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