On watching midnight bus-stops washed by lamps
he long-hauled miles of years, when he then ten,
saw his mother swerve down one-way ramps,
then he felt the fender to comprehend
not trips where she returned just as she left
but big, bastard van- no lights, no-brakes- death.
Glenn Bagshaw
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-moving-van/
