Inside a Public Bus.

Photo by Negative Space on Pexels.com

Sigh, and sit on the seat nearest the door,

The cold breeze will help the bad air, you to ignore,

Folk around you will let you open that window but once, no more,

Thereinafter hot breaths and body odour will mingle together so you can feast on the gore,

Hold your collar to your nose, try not to stare at the floor.

 

Hip buses old buses, moderate buses slow buses,

New buses fast buses, then the one that fusses

The type without shock absorbers that would give you crutches,

That makes jiggling for justice a punishable offence to judges,

So that a thirty-minute trip can make you start holding grudges

You feel sweat trickling down your butt crack, your face flushes.

Is it just me…I feel like every time the wheel turns, this bus lurches.

 

Is this really necessary?

Whyever do you do this every time you ferry?

I know the lot of  you think it’s now customary,

But whenever a butt is squashed against my arm, I feel like I might actually bury,

And the shoving of parcels against my head is making me weary

Consider reducing the amount you carry,

Because we alight with a little less dignity than when we climbed in, and weary.

 

Poor is he who comes drunk to pick with everyone, a fight,

The drama which ensues will take your mind off a mite,

They never really know how to get on once they start that light,

And it is laughable indeed the way they defend themselves in such a plight,

Wasted, wet little mongrels trying to give a fright

But end up lulled in the arms of the sweeping night.