#4 Bus

#4 Bus

He's that nice young man who sits
in his room and counts the fits
and the starts of what he writes.
He sees spirits in their flights
of a fancy free of wits.

He's that man who rides the bus
and he looks at you and us
from his window through the rain
and he wants you once again
without bother or much fuss.

He's that nice young man who drinks,
he's that nice young man who thinks
he will get you in his bed.
He hears voices in his head
from the land of nudge and winks.

He's that man who walks the street
seeking what will be your treat
from the trash or alley vine,
from the crass or the divine,
in his chill or in his heat.