bus driver

 

i hear it before i  see it

under my soggy, overhanging hood

a double-decker box plods towards us

otherwise known as the number 63

arriving at its normal time

4 minutes late

 

the box stops a few metres past the bus stop

a petty show of power

i slip aboard, eyeing potential seats

rolling loose change in my hand

i pay for a single

hoping to never return

whilst he grimaces

as the elderly trundle on and off

off and on

 

i grab the nearest dry seat and wonder

what he thinks about

behind that scowl

round and round

same roads, same people

round and round

living the same life everyday

round and round

how does this man function

round and round

what does it feel like to be a robot

round and round

 

i am undecided

either he’s the bravest man in the world

or the biggest coward you’ll never meet

arriving everyday, knowing that this will be all

he will ever be

or does he know the secret of life

relies on not taking things to seriously

and plodding a long

like the old number 63