The other day I was walking along the quays in Dublin past a row of bus stops. There is always plenty of activity with people queuing and bus drivers hanging about outside their vehicles smoking. As several bus routes terminate here there are also always inspectors there. I'm not sure what the inspectors do these days - all I can tell you is that when asked a question like, "Why did the nine o'clock bus not show up?" they will always claim that this is not one of the routes they look after.
Anyway, for once I got some value out of an inspector though he remains necessarily unaware of his small place in my life.
The Bus Inspector
The tall inspector gouges his hairy eye.
The cuffs of his trousers dance maniacally across his insteps.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteI laud your Anti-Poetry sir and shall 'Follow' you, as I hope you'll see fit to follow me in my own foolhardy endeavors!
ReplyDelete