Com - muting 

All are sitting in a huddle 
I get in as it hurtles 
‘Good morning!’ 
No response given 
All niceties forgotten 
My balance is shaken 
I sit in the last row 
My head bent low 
Unceremoniously 
Lips curled morosely 
Amidst the huddled figures 
Mind roaming in high gears 
The vibration 
Of the moving contraption 
Spill all over through my buttocks 
Sitting like two estranged bullocks 
Partly from sleep so gay 
The girls ahead sway 
As the van trundles away 
The man at the wheels 
Drives as he feels 
Reeling from the lanes 
like drunken Mighty Mike 
The boy sitting next 
drums on the seat, 
vexed fearing his job being axed. 
Then the van breaks 
tires screeching 
We pitch forward bouncing, 
The bobbing heads banging, 
Laptops plummeting, 
Cars in the rare honking! 
And then nothing! 
We settle down unthinking! 
The pilot is smiling! Sorry! 
Not to worry! 
We ARE in a hurry 
And ARE ready for the flurry, 
No matter what it does carry. 
We rush past Romans in toga 
And hear the Indian raga 
Of unwritten saga 
And turn to Rigga. 
Past the rows of splendid villas 
Past fences of drooping bougainvillas 
Past the smoking chimneys 
Past the crawling companies 
Round the junction 
Full of nagging premonition 
Just too fast 
Not a way to last 
As the girls nod in frenzied sleep 
As the brakes squeal in slush deep 
The van does stop 
I make a hop 
No glance stolen 
No chance taken 
Deliberately Silently 
I get down.

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