The tarpaulin flaps are buttoned down
on the windows of the state transport bus.
all the way up to jejuri.
a cold wind keeps whipping
and slapping a corner of tarpaulin at your elbow.
you look down to the roaring road.
you search for the signs of daybreak in what little light spills out of bus.
your own divided face in the pair of glasses
on an oldman`s nose
is all the countryside you get to see.
you seem to move continually forward.
toward a destination
just beyond the castemark beyond his eyebrows.
outside, the sun has risen quitely
it aims through an eyelet in the tarpaulin.
and shoots at the oldman`s glasses.
a sawed off sunbeam comes to rest gently against the driver`s right temple.
the bus seems to change direction.
at the end of bumpy ride with your own face on the either side
when you get off the bus.
you dont step inside the old man`s head.
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Comments about this poem (The Bus by Arun Kolatkar )
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