Bussing it

Bussing it

The sun comes up like a bloody great orange
Silvery jet-trails zip up the sky
As if such pale fragility might fall apart, or try

Every inanimate object is sugared with frost
Except where feet have trodden, hands have brushed, or wheels
criss-crossed.

At every stop, a huddle of cold humanity, fidgeting, stamping,
Breathing hot vapours of impatience, like fettered horses, eager to be
gone.

Each one boards with tangible relief
Red noses, watered eyes, fumbling for change with cold fingers
While those behind refrain from rushing on.

The mood is lighter now in such brief solace
A little warmth, a seat, some friendly chat.
"Hello, how are you?" "Ain't it cold?" "This blooming bus is always
bloody late!"

The sun is higher now, more like a coppered disc.
The frost's receding wetly in the shine
The bus fills up as journey's end approaches
From end to end, those standing form a line.

The mood is not so jovial now, we find
As bodies like sardines begin to grind
Upon each other's nerves, as the bus jolts and swerves
Sheer weight of numbers makes it such a bind.

And I have got to get off next, I frown
Long before we reach the favoured town
Through throngs of irate bodies I must fight
Before I can in confidence alight.

But when I finally make it, I am free
The clear, cold morning seems to welcome me
Alone, unfettered - what a treat it seems
Ten minutes I must walk with just my dreams

And no more buses till the evening stint...