I don’t mind following a big bus
through my neighborhood,
especially when I get close enough
to see the license plate holder
that reads: Gillig.

A descendent of the snub-nosed orange
behemoth that carried us to and from
Eureka Elementary, ours creaked and squealed
as it pulled up at the Balmain‘s driveway
next door,

its weary hinges complaining
as Mrs. Capps grasped the push-pull handle
to open the door for the sleepy, the stragglers,
her charges for the morning.

’Twas Gillig and Mrs. Capps who
delivered us safely, day after day,
to school and back home in the tradition
of bus drivers around the world,

as they do in my city in their comparatively
quiet, fuel-efficient, clean-lined conveniences,
transporting their occupants smoothly
from one place to another, hither and yon,
from pillar to post, far and wide,

a challenging job on the best of days,
thankless, I imagine, on others,

which is why I offer my vocal gratitude
to the bus ahead of me—not only for
its service to thousands in my city
but also for this sweet ride
down memory lane.