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Bus covered in a shroud of rain
Bus that’ll long continue even after I’m gone
Bus the existentialist driving ever on
through cold New England woods and south
Bus the nihilist
that can never feel tenderness
inside old steel

I feel a little love from the trees
I’m closer to kenning the Northern bond
that sleeps across small towns and schools
Massachusetts is pregnant
but I ride home on a fifteen dollar horse
in the alien embrace of the Chinese