The 409

The 409 

Sitting on an airless bus on College Road,

Trudging past the stadium with its breathless load.

Open windows offering victims to the relentless rain,

Bus and weather oblivious to this first world pain.

The smell of sweaty pits marinating beneath damp coats,

The haliotosed embraces the breaths of the oversmoked.

The lingering wift of the remnants of last week’s OAP’s OAB,

Reminds one of their ever urgent need to pee.

The lack of oxygen turns many eyes to sleep,

While causing inexperienced toddlers to relentlessly weep.

A close study of the powder blue of Galwegians open gate,

As in misery the bus from its pane the rain it tries to shake.

In quarter turns the wheels fight us through the traffic,

As the blue screech from an ambulance grows ever frantic.

Passengers disperse as GMIT calls them back to class,

Until finally Merlin magically waves us past.

And now we merrily trundle past Rosshill,

As I reminisce upon a summer’s ne’er-to-be-forgotten Moped’s thrill.

Knowing that all too soon the spring rain will whip my cheeks,

Once swiftly this bus shall reach Doughiska’s peak.

Warrior Princess