Commuting in verse


The 221 bus: Turnpike lane station to Edgware.
Ones with the spacious seating, these please me most.

She has red hair, violent red. Leather jacket.
Doesn’t quite cover her stomach, neither does
Her Hob salon T-shirt, she rolls a smoke.
Checks her phone. I think of fucking her,
And meeting her family, and then, I hate her.

Bench facing the road. A folded paper, shorts.
Grey top, grey hair. Portable radio and a can of polish beer.
He sits and observes, not quite a sad face,
Not quite a happy one.

A recent development. I walk behind a new co-worker,
she knows not I’m there .
Ten metres apart roughly. I slow my pace to remain behind her.
She is taller and far more capable.
She is new to the job, as am I.
She is taller than me and walks slower.

I walk side by side with another co-worker,
He is socially awkward as is everyone at the warehouse.
A man of few words, repetition.
I walk a snail’s pace.
I’m about to meters away from her.
I turn right in to the co-op to buy things
I don’t need.

Create a gap.
And take my secret route on my skateboard.

I do not like this new thing.



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