On the bus at midnight

by Mike Ingles                  


This is the first beat of morning:

his head is tilted against a window,

eyes squinted against the darkness,

form is reflected into window images

below advertisements for foot powder and Kleenex.

He wears assorted clothes,

a perfect fit for you and me.

His hands are silent, folded neatly in his lap,

serene, they have had a busy day.

They have brought symmetry to a universe,

long work for one who works silently

in the great vacuum of conception.


Nails protrude over bent and brown fingers;

the moons are perfect.

His mouth is cream and beige,

the lower lip folds slightly over the top.

His nose is a mile deep and wide as a muddy river. 

Eyes silent, unveiling long lashes,

closed to intolerance and bigotry.

And now he rests, deeply, assuredly,



He will not be awakened

from this endless pilgrimage of mine;

God is dead, but I know the truth.

He has just settled in, resting, nobody noticed,

or if they did notice they could not believe

the stillness in one deus ex machina,

humble, small, insignificant,

could turn the seasons.

There - but for the least of us  - I Am.


I ring the bell.

This is my stop.

My time to go,

the end to a journey into itself.

The designer doesn’t stir,

I ask the purveyor for a transfer,

he says I’m too late -  

the busses have ceased;

time has fulfilled its moment.


“Okay, but what about the old man?”

“He’s got a way to go,” answers the night.

“Don’t forget about Him,” I say.

“I never do,” is the infinite reply.

© Mike Ingles

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