49B, 8.11AM, MONDAY TO FRIDAY

Morning, early, in the bitter cold, I Arrive and board, and see a ticket sold. An all day pass, an obvious choice, For he is the type who travels around, And those that he visits await his arrival eagerly. The bus must not be late. Before me, above the driver, He hovers in his seat, at the top, at the front no less, How typical of him - he repels the damp that drips And falls from the glass which protects him. Dry as dust he remains. He knows I am there. I am always there, every Morning, early, in the bitter cold, I Arrive and board, and see his ticket sold. His glorious whiteness has dulled to grey now; He turns and sheds a sinister smile as he climbs downstairs, And his red face fades beyond the condensation of my window. I clear a patch with my sleeve to watch him go, But he has gone a different way today.