The Bus Driver

Sweaty hands turning the oversized wheel,

In the rearview, he watched as they laughed,

The drool on his chin had begun to congeal,

As he jerked the gearshift by its shaft.

His greased mullet bounced as he stole a quick glance,

At the newest piece of his collection,

The boy looked about six, maybe seven Perchance,

Judging just by his youthful complexion.

Grunting, he tongued at his open cold sore,

Breathing fumes of exhaust from the space vent,

This new friend would be his most favorite for sure,

Well, not counting the four in his basement.

3 thoughts on “The Bus Driver

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