the sunshine is slanting down,
down,
into your left eye
as the bus turns a corner
in the city
with buildings too tall for their
radiator souls
and their window-ledge shoulders
rubbing warmly in turn
refuge from a winter wind;
the seats
are warm
you could fall asleep
(easy, easy, to not be awake)
an old lady, rows ahead
nods away
deeper and deeper this little bus goes
and it’s destination you are
afraid
to know
not your office or a shop or
even the bank
but the end of your 29th year.