The bus was empty as we talked;
Me dead, him alive.
He was on good form,
As we headed for Oxford.
It was OK death,
Not quite the nullity I expected,
Or others predicted,
It was pretty much a continuation,
Nietzsche's eternal recurrance,
With Big Joe for company,
To the next life.
I woke up,
Big Joe was gone.
Only an echo of him in my tired ears,
Only a hint at what might lie ahead, if anything.