(Reproduced for those who had marked the original Dockery thread as spam. Wonderful, thoughtful poem from Michael Pendragon.)
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Journey in the Past
(unexpurgated version)

Back in 1980, a long ago time, many years, many days, lots of time...
I'd commute using Greyhound Bus Line, where the buses come fully equipped with latrines.
It wasn't really a commute because I slept in the back room where I worked at
the Harvey Lumber and Supply -- but I learned my English from Dan Barfly who said that close in meaning is good enough;
so I'd catch the bus every Friday night and be in Atlanta by nine.

The commute (that wasn't really a commute, but that's what I'm calling it anyway) was billed as express
but was often a slow ride at best because... you know... there's traffic and other passengers who want the bus to make stops and such.
The bus stopped at each bus stop because they're, like, stops... and buses have to stop at stops because they're called stops, so buses stop at them.
The driver's horn would loudly sound (I'm using an awkward sounding inversion just in case folks don't realize that a poem this is);
the journey put my patience to the test (I really should have learned how to read).

Once settled in the ride was a breeze (a slow breeze at best that tested my patience, of course, but nonetheless a breeze)
my Jean-Luc Godard book on my knee (it was mostly pictures and since I don't know how to read, I couldn't tell what the pictures meant, but balancing it on my knee took skill, and made me look intelligent).
I'd dash out a poem which was really just whatever jumbled thought fragments popped into my head, but I once read one in front of Ahmos Zu-Bolton in English class, and he nodded politely -- so it's a poem --
happy to be finally going because we don't get bathroom breaks at work and have to hold it all in till we can hit the Greyhound latrines...
knowing for the weekend I'd be scott free (whoever Scott is, and why he's free is beyond me -- but I learned to speak English phonetically, so "scott free" it is).

The bus rolled through little towns (they were all downhill and it saved on gas)
with a screeching, roaring sound (I sure hope that no one from Greyhound ever reads this poem, because they'd sue).
As the bus made the stop (like I said they're called bus stops, so buses have to stop at them -- like how Tootle had to stop for red flags)
on and off folks would hop (more awkward inversions, just so's y'all remember this is a poem, dammit!)
and soon we would again be northbound (I mean, technically, we never stopped being northbound -- even when we were stopped -- but as Dan Barfly taught me: "Close enough is good enough.").

The bus finally arrived at Atlanta Station because that was its final stop (it's amazing how buses do things like that... finally stopping at their final stop... it's poetic, really.
I'd jump off (because, unlike the old folks, I wasn't didn't have limit myself to hopping) for my short vacation.
With my suitcase I'd walk (I done got to remind everybody that this is a poem, by inverting a line or two each stanza)
up the long street I'd stalk (I wasn't really stalking anyone or anything, but I started rhyming lines three and four back in the third stanza, and decided to go with it -- and "stalk" and "walk" rhyme)
for the next leg of my destination (okay, I know that journeys have legs, and destinations don't, but I already used "journey" in my title and as Dan Barfly was wont to say "Close enough is good enough).

Soon Marta bus 32 would come along (it just kinda moseyed on up -- not like it had a schedule or anything)
with correct change I could jump on (folks who needed to break a dollar had to walk up the steps like a peon).
Up Peachtree Road past Piedmont Park (see, I can do alliteration, too!)
watching city lights flash through the dark (most city streets are brightly lit, but Atlanta was trying to cut back on their electric bill that year)
the sensation was like being stoned (especially because I'd been dropping acid all evening).

Ansley Mall at the top of the hill was my last stop (because I'd made half a dozen stops along the way, but left them out of the poem due to spatial limitations)
so I'd ring the bell (Ting-a-ling-ling!).
I'd had a fine trip even if it did try my patience (and that big guy punched me in the mouth when I tried to use the bus latrine that was situated right beside his seat)
now it was time to slip
Into some peace and quiet for a spell... inside the mall... because malls are so much quieter than four-hour bus rides. Thank God for quiet mini vacations in Atlanta malls on Friday nights!
Is there a Waffle House here? Anyone know what floor the Waffle House is on?

-Will Donkey (2020)