The newspapers lay soaked in the corner,

The bus droning down the lane,

Caught between,

But entirely averted, 

To all except its driver's pain

Tangled up in a waking nightmare, finds himself

Whispering only to he and his bus,

The coins dropped,

With each passing sign,

Memories laden with little but rust.

And he goes home, God only knows when,

For his watch has died from boredom,

Getting through the door,

Tries to douse his pain,

With phials of concentrated laudanum