Abandon.

Another about a bus ride.

Abandon.

By Robert Butler.

Seven twenty one, I am sitting on a bus,

Blood shot bones I'm all thumbs and fingers,

Gazing out of the window with sunken eyes,

Hundreds of front doors gush by and blend in to

Occasionally I catch some ones eye out the window,

Share a fleeting glance, then the stream of houses continues,

All of us roaring along with a clumsy effort,

A grey, old man pokes at the red plastic button and

Signalling the driver with two, long, sad fingers,

He folds his copy of Racing Post in his lap and stands up,

A mess of houses skim by until we pull up to a curb,

Then the man beings to depart but is charged by a rabble

Of snotty school boys who've rushed the doors,

I'm reminded of an aid truck in third-world Africa,

The man slinks past the commotion, shooting a frail grey glance

Over a bony shoulder as we walks slowly, sadly away,

Thinking thoughts the “good old days”,

All the while the bus is fidgeting by the curb,

The resultant noise of innumerable precision parts

Clacking against each over sounds remarkably like

A number of aluminium cans in a paper bag,

The doors close with a pneumatic hiss and we crawl away,

Passing the school to which the snotty rabble attend,

It's red brick buildings blocking out the eager morning sun,

The boys go quite as we go on by, I wonder a wonderful thought,

Spears of light come streaming in as the school is left to the rear window,

I shut my eyes, I yawn, I stretch my long legs;

Which is a feeling of almost sexual intensity in the naïve haze of the morning,

A screen at the bow of the bus reads the next stop in yellow LEDs,

I gather up my things and poke the bell with loathsome finger tips,

As I exit the bus, I too am rushed by the rabble,

They damn near knock me on my face,

I dodge past the commotion, shooting an angry hazel glance

Back to the bus, but it's already out of site,

Lumbering through the tapestry streets to it's next destination.