with rain,
tapping on my head,
and wind,
whipping my face,
the day is washed away.
As the bus,
bullies it way through,
the traffic,
it pulls into my stop,
the wind from it's heavy movement,
snatches the pages from my hands,
Bukowski's bold printed,
words scattered like leaves,
upon the street.
ruturned to the source,
of there inspiration
Not Long Left
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-bus-and-bukowski/
