Journey of the 48

A cold waiting we had for it,
just the worst time of day 
for the journey. The roads clogged
and the air sleet: what we dread in winter.
And when it came, with no seats
and the aisle full of children,
we regretted our planning. Next time, 
we agreed, we would travel off-peak
and make use of our passes.

Then, near town, we came down to the ring-road,
wet, smelling of diesel, with the factories
shuttered for safety. An old white van
died in a car-park, and the streets gridlocked.
When we arrive, not a moment too soon,
we have missed our appointment.

And this wasn’t a long time ago, remember,
but within the last week. There was a bus, certainly  -
we had travelled on it, but had hoped they were different.
This was wretched; hardly satisfactory.
We returned home another way, spending
our last on a taxi.
I should be glad of a better bus.

D. A. Prince

If you have any comments on this poem,  D. A. Prince  would be pleased to hear from you.