When we woke up
Our right wheel was drifting over the right line
Onto the road's shoulder.
Pebbles, kicked up by the turning tire,
Were striking the undercarriage,
Their pinging and cracking
Warned us of the ditch on the side.

Someone on the bus shouted
"Who the hell is driving?"
A clamor went up, demanding that someone
Relieve the weary (some said drunk)
Pilot at the wheel.

Someone had to start paying attention to the road
Because the mind of the present driver
Was clearly wandering, dreaming of glory
(Or at least some off-road vehicular recreation).

A few people stood up from their seats
And shouted, "I will drive!"
"This bus needs to be pointed in a new direction!"
Though a few welcomed the ditch,
Insisting that our sturdy conveyance
Needed no road, and could blaze
Any trail it so chose.

One man, though, began showing
Around the bus a new map, and with it
Passed around his expert pilot's license.
He had passed the driver's education course
Only recently, but with better marks than many.
It was his clear eye and steady-seeming hand, though
That impressed me and others the most.

We asked him
"Where do you think we should go?"
And he told us that the way was clearly marked,
But that without quick correction
Our beautiful bus would soon be stuck
In that deep ditch on the right of the road.

As he walked up the aisle,
The off-roaders shouted that he wouldn't just
Point us back into the middle of the lane.
Instead, we would find ourselves drifting across the center line,
Crossing the double yellow into oncoming traffic.

The man answered them,
Promising that he would not destroy our conveyance
And that if we saw troublesome motorists coming our way
Or the beginnings of inclement weather
He would appreciate and take to heart
Any reasonable detour or rerouting.

At just about this time
We began to run out of gas
And pulled into a way-station to refuel,
To stretch our legs, and to get some fresh air.
Those who looked at our driver realized that
He was in no shape to continue on, and needed a rest.

By now, everyone knew that it was time for a change.
The passengers had whittled it down to two potential drivers.
We already knew one; he once drove straight.
Now he looked longingly at the dirt roads and trails that led off to the right.
Most everyone on the bus, though, was unhappy
With the bumpy ride the last leg had taken.
We had no stomach for more of the same.

So we chose the man with the fresh map
And the newly-laminated license.
We all climbed back onto the bus,
Still worried about the rocks in the road,
Still anxious about the oncoming cars,
Yet hopeful about our new route,
Confident that our new driver
Would keep us in our lane,
Would see trouble ahead with his clear eyes,
Would keep a steady hand on the wheel
Of our big, beautiful bus.