Boredom nags as excitement waylaid
in the bus as a failure of nerve
creates a gap in welcome recall.
The day was otherwise smooth:
the usual rhythm of milk and granary bread
pen ink and paper was undisturbed.
A little chafing at hunger
sparked an irritation with God
for delaying the sun so long over day:
the bag spills its contents into hand
side-pockets, plastic and
changing signs the mind slips from
intended adventure to usual relapse.
At the familiar gray and dark red corner
the bus awaits its faithful children
leading them Piper like into hills
just outside the well worn haunts:
and in the seat just beyond the
usually empty (reserved for old people)
is she who in a single glance stops time.
Thin aquiline nose and
fine fingers thumbing through a
book of beads and threads in coloured patterns
hands, fully sleeved, grey in the shade
and yellow in the sunlight, rummage
through the huge bag for another book
and here next to her, I
with my own load on the tongue
struggle to find a word to fit the wedge
in the smooth carapace of our anonimity….
time suddenly jolts
to the present with the bus stop and
it’s time for me to give one last
sidelong glance she doesn’t see and
get up — stiff from excitement
of having a nascent encounter.
I get off with the sure feling
that she noticed it— irresistibly
I look through the glass and
wonder! She has.
I could have made many plans for the future
with this, but one line from an exiled
king beckons humility. Asked what plans
he had for his life he said simply:
“I’ll grow my cabbages in my own country”.