watching romantic poets, at rush hour

"but an old age serene and bright, and lovely as a lapland night, 
shall lead thee to thy grave."
-william wordsworth

a.
percy shelley, going home
on the Number Ten bus:
or so i thought
(at least)
someplace better than us.

the long shadow of grizzled ozymandias,
encased in an orgy of window dust.
the driver, haggard with spent caffeine,
would never rise to the defense of poetry,
become an unacknowledged legislator
of anything but transfer tickets.

b.
william blake, going to work
on the Light Rail:
or so i thought
(at least)
someplace where justice might prevail.

the pandemonium of tygers burning bright,
in this weed choked forest of urban blight.
the conductor, sagging from the weight of boredom,
could never see the whole world in a grain of sand,
become a singer of any experience
other than stamping transfer tickets.