My Poetry: Notes From a London Bus

Notes From a London Bus

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Bare trees reach up from small islands
Where tarmac refuses to grow,
Knotted, callused branches
Like an old man's finger,
Point towards an iron sky
Lined with ornate gold bauble roofs, and
Black glass high risers, which
Harbour the dark suited whores,
Sat in window boxes, at electric desks
Sucking up to bosses they diss
Biting lips cus of double dip recession fears,
Smile and continue to tap screens,

Renting out their lives by the year

Till carriage clock pensions yeild.

Meanwhile, Friday night saints and sinners
begin preperations for weekend absulutions,
Who will either kneel before
A folklore character or false pop idol
Before Monday arrives, carrying
A suitcase full of stresses, and
Five quid M+S mel deals for one.
Believing promises of happiness,
Will come true if they sacrifice
Their time on wealth's alter
Ignorant it will be the only god
Certain to let them down
When that eternal night falls.

A plumber's mate sleeps in passenger seat

As bus crabs alongside white van men
On congested four-way inner city streets
Where people move like crazed ants:
Across pavements, on foot, on crutches,

On scooters, in wheel chairs,
Searching for the end of their rainbows,
But the sun hides today
In deference to rain and fog,

Besides all precious metals paving the streets

Is just fool's gold for minor men.

Meanwhile the bus battles on like a ship
Chasing the minute hand, till
Metal fences turn to hedges,
Buildings become lower, cleaner,

nuclear incubators of suburban dreams
Till even they fade from the horizon,

Into a thousand different shades
Of green and browns

Decorated with silver ribbons, winding
Long and smooth from distant mountains.
Tired eyes follow flashing white lines,
Refocus on reflections on tinted window.

This side of the city divide
Some trees cling to leaves

As if the fight can be won in the country,
But their fallow branches must relent,
Just as an old man must repent,
And smile as he goes toe-to-toe with his fate.