Destinations Poem by robert dickerson

Everyone on this bus has a destination
Everyone on this bus has a stay
They hold their destinations in their laps like handbags
Or carefully tucked away in their lapels;
Destinations drift in his eyes like diatoms
When pedestrians catch sight of her face at the windowpane
And even if destination leads merely on to journey,
Even if the journey is itself only a transfer
To yet another destination, with barely a pause for breath,
The destination is critical-crucial, because, you see
If all these people forgot their destinations
Aimlessly lounged on the curb, came out of their cars,
The earth, which both rotates and revolves, would soon say,
'Why should I keep doing this'? The diligent earth
Soon would assume for itself the self-same privilege
And wander too close to the sun-we'd all get fried,
And wouldn't that be a fine kettle of fish!