The bus comes every single day
And every day
The people at the stop
Decline a ride.
They'd rather wait for a father
Or mother
Who said they'd pick them up
But might be late.
When the call comes
They will talk around
Every potentially problematic
Discussion topic.
It's exhausting to stretch out
The weather forecast
For an entire week
When it doesn't change.
And on Sunday there you are
Looking at your food
As the voices drop like bombs
Around your head
And you blindly reach for the nose
Of a wet and friendly dog
And if there's something good you've heard
You could never say it.
There are obstacles to your escape
As the evening fades away
And the miles home become complicated
By the meal that you just ate
And you think of all you didn't do
And will not complete this week
As they wrest some final words from you
Like poetry's the one thing not allowed.
