Morning Bus Ride

I go with the elderly by bus.

The moths have got the ends of my gloves.

We have blue grey hair and retired loves,

a November morning chilling us,

But exciting us as well, to be sure.

The moths have got the ends of my gloves.

We have lost our more disturbing loves,

yet a diesel warmth is arguing for

Enjoying the far, dim, niggard sun.

The moths have got the ends of my gloves.

We are not poor, but have spent our loves,

and this, at last, is our fun.