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.