A looking glass bus
waits in the stand.
My hundred selves climb up.
Some’s arrived quite late,
but others can be patient.
A war wrecks some roads and lanes
near and far as they ride, after all,
and yet the driver tsk-tsks,
“No one ever understands time.”
I whisper in the left ear of the other I,
“I was lost in the ruins of the thoughts.”
“What was you thinking?” He asks.
Doesn’t matter. They all went the way with the time.
Picture Nick Victor