Termination

135, 100, 70
meaningless numbers on moving metal boxes
red and white, and purple
or with gaudy ads
colours wildly clashing
with the screech of tyres

oil leaks
drop
by
drop
a dribble of dead liquid on the gravel
come to think of it, the gravel is dead too
and so are all of them
they stare, souls vacated
eyes fixed upon a distant utopia
that was never really visible anyway
or maybe
they're just dead

where do they go?
where does the bus
terminate?
at the end of a dead stretch of gravel
or perhaps, in a distant utopia
that we have not yet seen?
it may be a better place -
better than here, anyway

76.
the air is cold, dry. dull.
dead.
I sit
and stare
at my non-existent utopia
as the bus trundles on.

and after all that, I still become one of them.