I can’t finish my book. 

Holes in the asphalt

arrest my eyes. 

The bus rocks harder 

with each year. 

I learn a new traffic law

that you break. 

Buckled in 

to blame you 

if I come crashing out the window.

Buckling knees

yet I’d rather walk. 

Take my chances with 

the movements in the dark.

I’d rather look out.

With my pupils blurred,

black blankets

punctured by lampposts 

seem to stare back. 

Dark streets ease my eyes closed

to erase the time. 

Living between bus rides. 

I won’t finish my book.

Turn on all your bright lights

but I’ll cling all the same to 

Kipling, infinitely.