Lady of the Bus

Her skin may need an iron’s once over,

Its pigment is brash and fuchsia.

But she smiles more than she did back then,

So why bother with that cosmetic nonsense?

Her day’s dictated by today’s timetable.

‘Lost’ doesn’t exist, ‘it’s adventure’, she insists.

Quarter to the hour, or ten past,

The maze of her head, sign-posted by

A free seat (complimentary, if that teenage scoundrel

gives up his.)

She’s a first-class voyager, companion to her wooden aid,

Clutched tightly like a hand to hold.

She has a favourite chauffer, but their presence is


Young enough to be her grandson,

But pretty eyes all the same.

Today’s audience don’t quite meet her gaze,

‘sorry for your loss,’

Something she can’t quite place.

Maybe she’s just forgotten her keys.





Public Transport

Rickety, reckless, ridiculous more like!

A young couple. 19? Baby in pram.

A father, a nuisance, tattooed skull and ring

on his finger, fingers round her waist.

Hair like straw, attacked with heat from

the night



Window-screen adaption to a day-time


‘Town please.’ she says

‘1.40, love.’ I mutter.

The baby shrieks,

a roar, menacing. Ears fragile to

the piercing heart beat of the soap

opera sketch.

Foley artist?

My eyes divert to the road. If I focus

I can hear him snap at her.

The baby’s tearful welcome draws to

a holt.

Snap of her neck.

The baby is silenced.