On the bus

On the bus

I’m grasping at the gas lantern

Slipping

Sliding

jinking

gracefully

gemmelesque

between the jarveys

and broughams

avoiding bricks

chucked around a plinth

and you wouldn’t want

to be stuck in traffic

sucking

smoke along

Fenn’s Quay

Where queerly

The concept of

Catenaccio

Was not cast,

Nor was a key for the lock

Cut.

The special sense of a bus

In a showband setting is

Travelling in the grass and

Maybe

Think about the letter

Loosely

Spoken

As a lost art

Lurid Lancastrian laboratories

Exquisitely empathetic to the

Effluent errata

Trembling torpidly

And tunnelling unguents

Towards the ticking over of

Temperance everlasting

Emergency exits are especially

Catered for regularly,

Ruminating

Ruefully on what might have

Been is not.

David Toms

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