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