journey on a bus

The 'Centre for BioMolecular Science' stands tall,
I glance past , and wonder at the magic of it all;
the journey so far, the way still to go, and how
our human efforts make such little sense,
'Next Stop- Paddling Pool' ,though dead space now,
high pitched screams and water spray only echoes,
modulated tones clarifying our whereabouts.
Clipped precise consonants announce the locus of the No. 5.
A voice chosen for her calm , to soothe the weary,
the stressed, the travelling hordes.And it does.

'Next Stop- Dunkirk', and always images of history
flicker cinematically , grey pictures of trenches
and barbed wire, tin hats, grime, men worn
and torn by war. A time i never lived through,
though brought to mind on every bus trip into town.

Everyone is on a journey, and i know
there is no beginning , and no end,
but still the ache for meaning throbs
and pulses through my veins. They say now
how science has proved that rats laugh.
Are they laughing now? They forgot
that tickling produces a response
more akin to pain than pleasure.I think
they got it wrong. The rat can't tell.