I-Spy**** Poem by Neil Young

the thrum of coaches... not one of them ours... each draws up to depart with strangers

it's late... sweltering... we grow tired waiting for the overnight one to take us home
we arrived early... lucky to find a seat... now the late-night crowds are gathering
a young couple... content with coffee... sit crossed legged on the floor

i-spy… she plays... something beginning with... 'b'
thinking... looking around... he jests... bach's toccata and fugue in d minor
he couldn't know... my bag hiding a near mint copy of wicks at canterbury... i laugh

almost eleven... coaches throb... glass walls vibrate... darkness drags some cool air in