The Number 29
I sat aboard the Number 29,
With my little brother’s hand in mine.
At the front near the drivers seat,
He perched to scuff his little feet
Upon the floor, and thought of treats
That we would buy for him at the store.
Clutching a bag of stale crusts,
We chatted about the many ducks
That we would feed down by the pond,
And the search for croaky frogs
That sit upon their slimy logs
And leap into the depths.
His silent smile, a cheeky grin,
Is all I can remember of him
As the bus took flight, tearing through the air,
And suddenly we were lying there
Amongst the broken glass and smoke.
I tried hard not to choke on the
Fumes that billowed and swirled.
His tiny frame was lying still,
Right beside me, until
I scooped him up, tried to make
Him breathe.
But all my efforts failed to conceive
Little #life in him.
I replay this day a thousand times.
I begin with his little hand in mine,
We walk on up to the bus stop where
The Number 29 is not there,
It’s the 108 we take this time,
And everything will turn out fine.
We’ll feed the ducks, find frogs, buy treats,
And scuff our feet beneath the bus seats.
But callous conception triumphs every time,
Oh how I wish we had not been passengers
aboard that Number 29.
