Metro Buses
All across town, upside and down,
Metro buses drive by,
With ramshackle clatter,
Empty as spent shotgun cartridges
Or unloaded Chinese cargo containers
Piled six stories high,
On America's spendthrift dock.
How can they justify their existence,
When nobody rides their routes,
Arriving home, late,
To ghettos, prisons, cemeteries,
After slaving, all day, in suburbia?
Not a solitary soul knows,
Not even the phantom drivers.
03/23/10 - (2)
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