Conspiracy of Buses
Bellevue, Hunter's Tryst, The Jewel -
destinations that might be humdrum,
but sound desirable, far-flung.
Up close, LRT stock is dirty; swearwords
gurn through puddle muck on the flanks.
Spied by birds on the wing, their ranks -
all maroon and white livery, wine-red seats -
gleam on wet days when Princes Street,
silvered by wind, is a shivering mirage.
Miniature buses follow circular paths,
revolve in patterns settled
by the motion of planets; welded from metal,
a secret orrery to mirror the stars.
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