Connecting Transit Lines

The lonely crowded,
Greyhound (trademark) bus line,
Runs down to Topeka,
And I take it between here and home,
Between here and reality,
Jostling right and left and up and left again,
Sleeping against a persistant metal window lining,
Strike up conversations in the day,
Like matches on the side of a Diamond (trademark) box,
To burn down in between the seats,
And smell for hours in the silence,
Every pretty girl that gets on is the right one,
Shaking my head doesn't make me any less caught up,
In hoping that what I see,
Moving in the trees outside,
On the license plates of cars beside,
In the bowl of light above the ticket window,
Isn't long gone here.