The BUS

I make my way
through crowd and cattle
Shirt clinging
and brow dripping

I search my pockets
for the allowance
Required to pay for
my future conveyance

A green mahatma
stares at me
A sole survivor
dying to be set free

My tattered wealth
I hold on to safely
Waiting for her
my 21G

As finally she arrives
I jump aboard
and extend my arm
Mahatma will be mine no more

The minuscule man in Khaki
studies my note
and then me
and smiles nonchalantly

With a pat on the back
and a caring curse
He grabs me by the shoulder
and heaves me off the bus

Here my story
comes to an abrupt end
My marathon walk thereafter
is not interesting enough to pen