163

An old poem of mine

 
163

 

 
On the 163

Going to Manny

Seems to last

For an endless hour

Travelling through Langley

Past plagiarised houses

Tip tapping my mobile

To help the time fly

Silently shuffling in my seat

Lost in tunes from my mp3

My mind wanders

To poems unwritten

People get on in sequenced step

Stealing seats left warm

By passengers before

Teenagers accumulate in dark corners

Launching spit balls from straws

For respect from peers

Little old ladies

Stumble on unsteady feet

Fearing the press of a bell

Will not cement

Their departure at the correct stop

A tattoo parlour

With large red letters

Signals it’s soon

Time to get off

Arriving means it’s time to shop

But spending means many bags

Resulting in a compact journey home

With squashed knees and hands held tight

Stuck with concrete view

Overheard conversations

From those loudly indiscreet

Spouting petty personal gossip

While girls giggle

With blushed cheeks

Mums wielding prams battle for space

While a drunken man snores

Muttering under a stale beer breath

Finally seeing the church

Signals salvation

Home is near

Sighs of satisfaction

On departure

Saying the words

Never again

Yet I know the 163 will travel through my future

The journey from hell

Will always remain

 
By Katie Haigh

Copyright@K.Haigh

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