I hate to complain,
but, the bus is late again,
the driver’s groans and engine’s pain,
a chorus of dismay and strain.
Branches hit the windows snapping,
a tiny dog keeps yapping,
a woman talks on her loud phone,
while sweat drifts from the man alone.
The hills and fields so bright and fair,
fade into houses, mills, and air,
the sun breaks through the clouds
as I head to my group, so proud.
For writing and some sweet cake,
I wonder what poem I’ll create.
