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.