Bus. For Allen Ginsberg.

by hangonz92

The bump-ity bump of the bus blurred my vision but

still I sang.

As the words jumped

and London sped by

in jerks

and halts

and dings,

my mouth began to move

unconscious of the page.

My hand waved,

my fist clenched,

un-clenched,

fingers wagged,

as if my body were being

possessed by the man himself

who wrote these sacred words

which fill my head now.

My glasses fog up

as the frigid winter air

swoops in to allow

passengers’ escape.

My warm breath

creating steam

which only drives me forward.

My passion grows

along with my volume

and my intoxication.

I read

and wave

and clench

and sing.

I finish the poem

and must take a breath

to relocate my body.

There is clapping,

but I look out at the

blackened streets

and signal

my departure.

I take my final

bow

into the London

night.

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