I'm no Plato, but this bus
is a moving cave
engineered by rationalists
to convey us to our homes
where we will fall into
our irrational selves.
But for now, we are bats
in the velvet light,
wings folded,
hanging like sacks.
Who knows who among us
is petulant, or who snaps
up every opportunity,
who has flatulence,
who sweetens their tea,
who dreams he is Cleopatra
and she is Antony,
who plays the pipe
and who can't read.
What we do know
is that for now we are
as we were initially -
travellers
hanging out in a cave,
ultrasounded,
contiguous,
as disambiguous
as barometers
in a closed setting,
mentally sketching
echoic schemes.
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