On watching midnight bus-stops washed by lamps <br />he long-hauled miles of years, when he then ten, <br /> saw his mother swerve down one-way ramps, <br />then he felt the fender to comprehend <br />not trips where she returned just as she left <br />but big, bastard van- no lights, no-brakes- death.<br /><br />Glenn Bagshaw<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-moving-van/
