Do thoughts have a destination?
It is a double decker bus,
painted emerald green.
It rumbles over the uneven landscape
of reality being created
as fast as the bus moves,
swelling, swirling, expanding and flattening
Inside the bus,
dressed in various ways,
sit the passengers –
thoughts that have become
by having been called into existence
Take the one, a little incongruously dressed
in a T-shirt
and a formal tie, maroon
with a discreet orange pattern woven into it.
One could take him as a male,
judging by the squarish chin
and very faint skull ridges over the eyes.
He – let’s call him he –
is looking through the window,
idly opening and closing
his Jospeh Rodgers pocket knife.
Yes, it is definitely a male thought.
What is he about?
He looks up at us.
One could say that he looks vulnerable, but then
he tightens his mouth and narrows his eyes slightly.
Why did they start making clay pots,
those women? he asks.
He looks to the side, then back.
Utensils, weapons, machines, computers,
things that can think.
I’m beginning to wonder, he adds softly,
whether there will still be room for me