Running Feet Towards No Where Poem by Joshua Bantum

6 am
Its still dark outside the stalled bus.
Any moon existing
Barely penetrates these tinted windows.

The consistent stream of night shine
Trails the city streets
And were all sitting apart
But stuck together, in this bus
Like shotgun pellets.

The clock starts towards 7am
And the antsy
Get annexed,
Like they usually do,
So another bus finally starts up behind us.
We unload behind in a file,
Like cattle going to the butchers
To get worked for our jewels.
Were stapled in our seats now
And the tired get caught
In sleep,
Besides me, the rest having a desk waiting for them
A toping Marquam Hill they’ll be handed their fate
In reports and letters that trail off the paper as they catch
Themselves sleeping again,
I only have a sleeping bag
And cold hardwood floors.

Both seem terrible I guess,
So I don’t feel that bad about it all