A passport to purgatory
with no request stops
and one final destination.
Blank eyed, killer cold,
I look just like some shifty cove
of interest to the police-
a drug baron or someone who
does dreadful things to cats.
I place my effigy face down,
wait for the electronic ping
which says I am still me,
then find a seat.
The bus, packed full
as a milkman’s crate
with silver tops,
is loud with chat.
“These car wash people are all Russian”
“They’ll soon get finished then.”
“Isn’t it funny – you often find
something you haven’t lost.”
Museum Street. The conversation’s stilled.
We shuffle off, take up our own affairs –
optician, dentist, hospital for tests-
all necessary measures for survival.
That way we can eke out a few more years
the journey matters more than the arrival.