For late, in the small hours, An open-topped bus grumbled to a halt Along my road. Grumbled me to the window.
And out stepped a rolling man, Head to toe in bright orange, With a bowler hat to match, Who waved his hands with stories To the driver Before taking a bow and swaying left to right Round the corner.
It struck me; The excitable giggle bubbling, Tickling my chest, That I had a secret: I, alone, had a a beautiful gem Of happiness.
And, too, how alone my treasure sits. For who would and could Share my silly, see-saw joy.
Not one other soul Would sleep with bright orange smiles.