It's like a bus: "we're all full up","try again next spring". Nobody steps off.It's the perennial bandwagon,tickets marked acceptance. Someone falls offof their own death, room for another. They line upcredit lists in hand, their eyes floweringsmart metaphors.
Nobody wants to take tickets any more, butto move to the back of the bus where the singingand drinking goes on, waving from the windows,on a bus going, going.
It's an old bus, lots of flagsand we read of the happy accidents;it never gets to the last depot. It goes aroundthe same town again and again.
They're always advertising the grand tour.and they don't see a damned thing. They'realways running to catch it, and everything whisksby them waiting for someone to walk by,
to discover the world like an out ofthe way place, that never gets backto us by word of mouth, since it'salways the last place we left behind.
