by Robert Frostbitten
Whose bus this is I think I know.
His home is 'cross the river though;
He will not mind me stopping here
To watch his bus be topped with snow.
My little bus must think it queer
To stop each time we get so near
To other buses that we see
Parked at the malls or stores, like here.
Its little engine idles rough
To ask if I have had enough.
The only other sound I hear
Is wiper blades on snowy fluff.
His bus is lovely, clean and bright,
A pleasing note of all that's right.
But I have traffic still to fight,
And miles to go this winter's night.
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