Bus Games

Silk-black skin and long neck.
Graceful, she glances away,
longs for another place,
beyond the burning red-hot glass
of a red bus,
on a roasted trip with

a man, unshaven and unpruned,
pale and raw,
who mutters to her out-turned cheek,
as if she can hear his stabbing red-hot words,
his obscenities
his taunts
his ignorance,
his out of touch-with-her-ness.

Switched off, but sparked,
she stretches up further,
swiftly turns,
forcing his obstructions,
his workman’s rough and knackered knees,
to turn and
let her go.

She re-aligns herself,
on a platform,
at the rear,
back to his front-facing-ness, but

catches his eye,
asserts herself,

A game.

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, May 2017


Published by The Silly-Savvy Salopian

Freelance writer and descendant of the cave dweller and outlaw, Humphrey Kynaston. Banished from Shropshire for my eccentricity, I have made my home in Suffolk. I write poetry, short stories, travel journals, comedy gig reviews and non-fiction articles. My wish is to write my way back into the heart of my birth land. All writing commissions (and free holidays in Shropshire!) considered.

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