Terry's Buses

get no younger.
These are one year old.
Nighttime buses bathed in
gloom fluorescent
ghost awaiting silence.
Terry's buses:
night enameled-bright.
Every nook and corner crack
lacks the cast of shadow.
The undead patrons,
shadeless, hunt a living image;
seeking self in sharp bright plastic
seats unoccupied; no soul reflected.
Neons smearing, argons streaming
Illuminate the night bus stops.
Waiting shadows without self image:
this year's young commuters,
Terry clothed.