A bus elsewhere would be quite dull,
A way to join points;
A simple way to locomote,
A way to join points.
Here in the place I call my home,
A city full of noise,
Such buses are daily call,
In a city full of noise.
Where 14 people nicely fit,
Are always squeezed two dozen,
And in your lap, your face, your pits,
Are always squeezed two dozen.
Reggae, rap, dance, Christian rock,
Bass pounding through your skull,
There’s constant tunes to please and numb,
Bass pounding through your skull.
Where numbers/signs might do the trick,
There’s shouting dusk to dawn,
Young men on drugs paid tuppence-worth,
There’s shouting dusk till dawn.
The shrill coin tap on metal roof,
Signalling to stop,
You shoulder tap so subtly,
Signalling to stop.
You don’t just get from A to B,
You get to see a world,
On 14 seats, two dozen lives,
You get to see a world.
A roast dinner from a Sunday night which clings to drying clothes on the clothes horse and lingers into gym classes the next afternoon.
An inhabited smell, of people I love coming and going and leaving traces of themselves.
The smell of not-too-frequent baths and showers, the only people suffering the consequences being the people who are of the same home, same womb, same atoms.
Alcohol, leftover dredges at the bottom of a glass somewhere near the bottom of my bed.
Paper, pens, books old and new with varying amounts of dust and crisp newness emanating from their spines.
Friends I’ve chosen, and who’ve chosen me through circumstances, bringing cake, bringing muddy boots, and leftover food.
A smell I can’t place and can only perceive when I stop thinking and questioning, one which is yet to be formulated by myself and the circumstances I chase after.
Something like creation and contentment, and a perfumer’s mix of all I’ve lived and done.
My own home.
Much that I’d like
I can’t seem to hike
To the top of the peak
Of the high, so to speak,
Ove’ which many may peek,
And in doing so eek
Out a mindset so true,
So uncomfortably new,
For those not well-versed,
And for those that are cursed
With the green-fingered hand
So they don’t want to land
On the pasture so dry
Of the world of ‘not-high’.