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published
in Orbis,
Issue 141, 2007, ISSN 0300-4425
London bus
She’s carrying a child,
face fuzzy with sleep, clinging
to
spaghetti straps stretched over bony shoulders.
He’s
carrying the tiredness of starting work at 5am,
photographs
of his children back in Venezuela.
She’s
carrying a sudoku, a neat cage of numbers
erasing
the lump and the hospital letter.
He’s
carrying a basil plant in a plastic bag,
a
paperback with a gunman on its cover.
She’s
carrying the confidence of a new haircut,
the
sweat of last night’s brief encounter.
He’s
carrying the lines of forty years of loneliness,
worn-out
fantasies about his neighbour’s daughter.
She’s
carrying a furry bookmark, gift from her mother,
unread
notes from last week’s lecture.
He’s
carrying a walking stick in twisted fingers
tapping
rhythms from a sonnet he struggles to remember.
She’s
carrying sunglasses, a tortoiseshell compact,
bright
red lipstick for the morning’s hangover.
He’s
carrying the Sun, indigestion from a fried breakfast,
resentment
of the woman with the long vowels and laptop computer.
She’s
carrying a set of headphones she shares with her sister,
a
rainbow of gel pens, two scrunchies and a history folder.
He’s
carrying a mobile phone, a headful of tangled wires,
hair
bleach, citric acid and baking soda.
Vicky Wilson
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