(turning thirty)

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.