The Bus Driver (A Poem)

Hands at the ready,

Knees needed like springs,

The bus goes chug-chug,

At the hands of the driver,

Who doesn’t know to break,

Until it’s too late.

You lurch forward,

Sideways,

Knocking into the woman next to you:

Sorry.

A lucky charm hangs behind the driver,

A small pineapple on a string,

So you think of spikes,

Then a pricked finger from Junior School,

Stabbed by the teacher;

A drop of scarlet.

Will you cheat again?

No.

Heavy stomach,

Sweaty palms.

The bus spins around on a two-pence piece,

Without the driver looking in his rear-view mirror,

His secondary object of awareness.

It’s all he needs,

To know he can’t drive,

The way he thinks he can.

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