six thirty pm
and the remains of the most expensive cheese sandwich I’ve
               ever eaten
cling to the crevasses
of my slowly dissolving
               back teeth

the baby at the rear of the bus
                                                      fusses
                                                      and frets
                                                      over her drink box
as her father’s tattooed hand follows his soft voice
               smoothing her into a seated position
You can sit next to me and drink your drink

the sun keeps its winter eye trained on the horizon
                              we move forward
               a blur of last week’s magazines
               and mobile phone threats from the man
               with no van
                              and no plan
I’ll have ye fer dinner ye cunt!
               and in perfect unison we all move
                                                                                          particles of water
                                                                           away
from the spit of hot oil in the fourth row from the back
he bellows into his phone
                                             I’ll have yeeee
and the sweet sour smell of afternoon sick
                                                                                          and drinking
clings to the edges of the chairs and pulls itself
                                             slowly up the aisle

I stare out the window
discreetly picking the spot on my nose
               for approximately one mile in a northerly direction
encouraging infection
               with a bitten off nail and absent mind
that keeps finding itself
                                                                                                    at your bottom lip
                                                                      the join of your hip to your back
                                        and slack morning eyes that opened
                                                                                      six hours ago

                              the lack of sleep is starting to show

                              I think I might be ill

the dark of the glass on the top deck
               makes liquid strands of my hands
reflections of reading lights and passing cars
               and I become transfixed by the sight of the night layered
                                             behind the curved sides of the bus

to my right
a row of lorries carry
their yellow lights
in long straight lines
               and the sign across the aisle tells me to
                              Smash Glass and Push Out Remnants
                                                                                          and so I do

                                                                                                 thinking of you
                                                                   I pick out the shards of disbelief
                                          and reach
                                                        for a tangible sense of relief that those
                           pieces of golden optimism
                                          I’d been storing away
                                                        have truly proven their worth

               we pass a sign for Hunger Hill
                              as my waiting takes on a new dimension

resigned impatience

                              slightly north of Bolton