I pace the aisle as captains pace the deck,
To chart the cockpit’s wind and wheel-well’s moan;
Too near the back—the shocks abuse my neck;
Too near the front—the driver guards his throne.
Mid-starboard shines, where chatter hums but low;
The exit’s near, yet bullies shun the light.
Here shall I dock, where thermal currents flow,
And Wi‑Fi bars ascend to pleasing height.
O mortal coil of cushions, yield me peace—
Let probability and posture kiss;
I claim this bench by scientific lease,
And scribble, “Seat selected.” (Reader: bliss.)
Note: A heroic couplet tour of the school bus, where comfort bows to calculus.