Billy Gale Rides The Bus Poem by Patrick O'Reilly

Billy Gale rides the bus nine straight hours today
Because there was no place like a home
To go to
And he watched the cement grey and red brick waves ebb and flow
And a river of luckless, faceless souls
Drifting over the sidewalk
Citified business suit spectres
Disillusioned illusions
Passing through each other, sleepy-eyed and smokefaced
He still rode the bus long after the silvery switchblade moon cut the strings off the sun
It exploded beyond the stain still spreading over the black hills
The moon and the sun are just suburbs
So why lay your head in these city wide ruts, he asks himself
Growing tired