Waiting for a bus,

On a winter morn.

I meet the wind’s scorn,

It sings as it starts to sting.

The Sixty or Seventeen,

Or even the Nineteen.

I’ll take anything

To be sitting on a bus.

Stepping on a bus,

City centre mate,

£1.90 is the rate.

Only one question:

Top or bottom deck?

Top, back, after a check,

To avoid congestion.

It’s warm, on this bus.

On this bus

It smells of BO and farts,

And the perfume of tarts.

Stains on the seats,

My skin retreats.

I see a banana skin

On the floor.

It should be in the bin,

Comedy in store?

Slippin on a bus.

On a bus

The precipitation’s sheen,

Makes my window steam.

Strangers reluctantly stare

At the girl with green hair.

Then they find out:

No more seats spare.

Seeing them pout,

There is nothing to compare

With being on a bus.

On a bus

Down Maryland Road,

Out the window I see;

Pubs and Bookies stowed

Scenes of a recession:

Two neds disagree,

A funeral procession,

A plastic bag spree,

And manic depression.

All seen from a bus.

On a bus

Now snaking into town.

Sun coming up

Lights going down.

Stuttering giddyup

As I get to my feet,

It’s my stop – Hope St.

I hear that chime,

The hissing door

Returns the cold I abhor.

The doors enclose.

I watch as it goes,

Until the next time

I’m waiting for a bus.