with rain, <br />tapping on my head, <br />and wind, <br />whipping my face, <br />the day is washed away. <br />As the bus, <br />bullies it way through, <br />the traffic, <br />it pulls into my stop, <br />the wind from it's heavy movement, <br />snatches the pages from my hands, <br />Bukowski's bold printed, <br />words scattered like leaves, <br />upon the street. <br />ruturned to the source, <br />of there inspiration<br /><br />Not Long Left<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-bus-and-bukowski/
