on a bus with a number
in a town with a name
on a street called something like
sycamore avenue
chestnut close
or
butchers bridge
sits a man with an age
shaking with breakdown
hunched on the high seats
up near the back
and a girl who is a daughter
holds his arm with a kind of pride
smiles a youth-confident smile
maybe
just pleased
hes out
in clothes called polyester-chic
i slouch behind them
my knees are shiny
going to a place called work
listening to rock from the past
on a tapeplayer with auto reverse
and headphones with megabass
its a year with a number
that starts 19
there is booze in my morning sweat
there is fag ash in my suede coat
i wear black nike airs called pegasus
one punctured hisses like a snake
and i wonder
that
we
dont
all shake like that
in fear and panic and impotence
in a gut-balls reaction called instinct
at the world
that has become
from andysbusblog.blogspot.co.uk
