A bus-
the dying term omnibus suits better
but let that be- 
     having right of way,
detains us.  
     Passing faces occupy
the stream of changeful feeling
suitable for drama on wheels:
     anger frets by nameless sorrow, 
saintly patience breathes...
     silently beside indescribable love.
Humour writes in dust,  joy stands by pain.
     These disciples of the clear expression 
(so easily named aright, so hard to put from our minds)
start to meet our gaze- a sudden awakening
or head-on crash. But already we corner:
     steeled  and wrought-iron gates suck us in
with the improbable credo 
     every pair of eyes are those of a robot