Saturday, 15 December 2018

on the 3A bus to town

on the 3A bus to town

on the 3A bus in the rain,
windows running with steam,
seems like the end of the universe,
in this grotty wet dream.

moan hot on us
this growling in sway,
three witch way women
on their vicissitudes inveigh.

white strip lights
pink bell poles
man in yellow plastic coat,
the driver wipes holes

in the concertina door
that water screen ran;
as a prattle empty can
rattled down upon the floor.

and the next stop is for no one,
for no one this day dares,
plod the flooding flood waters,
they’re all at home in their chairs.

piped rain rolls down
the vibrating windows,
soon to be in town
and shopping indoors. 

there’s a green light 
smearing at me,
it looks so happy,
so alright is he the

man (the only man)
in two seats ahead,
but he is nodding so stiffly
i think he might be dead.

through the hospital now,
pedestrian slow,
should we stop and
and ask if they know, if they know

if he’s dead? but no, better not
for the rain is dripping down
my trousers and coat;
let’s get on into town,

on this darkening of days
where a bus stop waiter, now listen, alright!
is flashing his iPhone it ever so bright;
please stop bus, stop bus, he prays;

and now a cough crawls on the bus,
giving every strain of virus to us.
but ding and
we are there, we are there at last,
so she announces, on her phone, ever so fast.

and so off i get
at the very edge of space,
the rain hasn’t stopped yet,
nor has the human race.

and i wrote this poem, all of the way 
on the 3A to prove it;
and if you can improve it 
then you’ll have to pay 
for a ticket to mark your favourite page,
for every bus in the world is a similar stage.

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