THE ONE THEY CALL THE NAVIDUCTOR

What if the Naviductor of the 733 blows past your express spot, your "stop," and it's another twenty minutes until that behemoth bitch of a bus comes rumbling down Spring?

Does one expend the manpower hours to fashion a letterfile Trident sophisticated enough
to make future overlords grouchy for sport?

Does one ask to speak to a surly supervisor knowing full well they couldn't even throw a knuckleball into a shitstorm?

At the moment the Naviductor blows past for sport, does one fantasize about going bowling with the adult fontanelle of the one they call the Naviductor?

I'll tell you what, find me some cactus pins with a fine patina of follicle flagella and we'll use them to gorge on the commotion of the pins as they collude?

But, standing there I sure wanted to talon a rock and curveball it right into that official exposition, the tart diction in a letter of complaint.

What is it in the adrenaline of boomerangs that seduces the Naviductor to robberbarron portents to hunches?

But without a bus number, or a service quotient, or a description of the Naviductor, or approximate time of disturbance, the most I could expect from my sigh would be a cruising altitude of erasure.