not a smoke not a puff.
a bus ticket to Memory Lane,
as a small boy riding on top deck
of the red root master bus, the conductor
when dad pay would reel off a extra extra long ticket
just for me to play with, why this memory today well
my poetic rants seem to stimulate a wellbeing
confidence, as I typed that, I felt the two fingers rise,
I'm taking daily notes on a tillrole
to keep them in order, and to be a little eccentric ,
this is never going to evolve into a rant is it ?
Maybe next time ? a