Tragedy of the Commons

Dear Mr. Bus Driver,

I'm sorry I called you a twat 

and threw a hubcap at your bus.

I should have called you 

a fat fucking twat 

and spat a nice green gob

in your face.

Again, I'm sorry

I shouldn't have chucked the hubcap

at that nice new bus 

as I exited.

The bus didn't do anything.

You did.

I caught the sly grin on your face

when you made us squirm 

all the way up the packed aisle 

from the back of the articulated bus

to the front.

"Back door!" we shouted.

"We'll come up to the front 

and show you our pass."

Silence.

One of us was going home

from the airport

with a guitar,

backpack

and two carry-on bags.

Nice little grin you had

watching us from the rearview mirror

as his bags bashed old people on the head

and drenched tired commuters 

climbed over each other 

to give us room.

Thanks.

Can I be there when they remove 

the pig feet fingers

and green mushroom toes 

from your rotten diabetic limbs?

Say, 2011?

It's a date, shitcunt.

The tragedy of the commons

is that the public good

is just as available to cum stains like you

as it is available to assholes like me.