Rug Sweeper Poem by Ima Ryma

I watched the traffic from the bus.
Rush hour made it stop and go.
It did no good to fret or cuss.
Somethings went fast, somethings went slow.
Just as traffic began to crawl,
I blew an unexpected blast.
A sneeze - the granddad of 'em all -
Exploded furious and fast.
All was still as I wiped my snout.
Looking straight ahead I could see
There was something amiss about
The man who sat in front of me.

Oh no! What could I do or say?
I'd blown off the poor guy's toupee.