Bus Youths

Flaps –
dark eye-shutters, open at right angles to head-windows –
clear, translucent, sparkling ports of access to a mass of perfectly-tuned, white-grey matter.
Still young, still sprightly, and polished, ready
to take on another day,
to make synaptic deliveries, to utter profundities to similarly fresh-minded acquaintances about:
the nocturnal habits of toilet rolls, enlisted as bed companions;
the wisdom of exchanging a liver-spotted, short-sleeved shirt man for a long-sleeved replacement;
the necessity of using quality three-ply tissues, not two-ply, on antique skin;
the importance of looking like Alice – hair smartened up and cleared away from eager eyes with
a youthful band or a silver clip.

An orange-spotted, crisply-starched blouse mocks my washed-out, un-ironed, double-denim –
outmoded, mid-range, middle-aged –  best left to ripen.

A purple, pink and mauve floral skirt swishes provocatively at
a white-hatted gentleman, proudly sporting a cream tank-top and beige slacks, whose
large sun-browned ears beat with boyish exuberance at the chatter of giggling ladies,
the whiskers emanating from his large cheek mole, twitching, eager to receive all incoming signals.
Whiskers gets off at the next stop, his loose-skinned elbows fluttering;
upper teeth grinning, beaming; black-socked feet in spit-glossed tanned shoes, striding;
wooden stick leading the way
forward …

Copyright owned by Jay Cool, May 2017


Image by mohamed_hassan on Pixabay.com

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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