I hate you. Your inconsiderate passengers, your all too frequent starts and stops, the fizzing of tinny headphones pulsing a thousand different beats. The too-much-perfume pensioners, the heavy breathing heavy set men in their heavy faded suits . The all-too-cheery, far-too-happy-to-be-alive conductors and the blackened, sullen, sunken, sulky teenagers.
Oh, I am amongst you for now, but soon i will be free!
I peer through foggy windows dripping with condensation at the cyclists pedalling contentedly.
Slim, fast, lycra clad slips flitting through traffic, the sun reflecting off their shiny shells. Slow, steady commuters with satchels and suits casually sloping along the road. The hipster girls, bikes from the 19th century with their wicker baskets and thick, bulky fashion glasses, billowing summer dresses and flowing blonde hair. The nightwatchman returning home on his rusted old machine, his reflective jacket flapping carelessly behind him in the breeze.
For now, this beautiful sunny day is yours. For now, the heat beating down from the kind sun is your lifeforce, not mine.
And I, slowly drowning, turn my head. The man beside me coughs, then sneezes. He wipes his hand on his trousers leaving a sticky residue.
Dear bus, I hate you.
Oh, I am amongst you for now, but soon i will be free!
I peer through foggy windows dripping with condensation at the cyclists pedalling contentedly.
Slim, fast, lycra clad slips flitting through traffic, the sun reflecting off their shiny shells. Slow, steady commuters with satchels and suits casually sloping along the road. The hipster girls, bikes from the 19th century with their wicker baskets and thick, bulky fashion glasses, billowing summer dresses and flowing blonde hair. The nightwatchman returning home on his rusted old machine, his reflective jacket flapping carelessly behind him in the breeze.
For now, this beautiful sunny day is yours. For now, the heat beating down from the kind sun is your lifeforce, not mine.
And I, slowly drowning, turn my head. The man beside me coughs, then sneezes. He wipes his hand on his trousers leaving a sticky residue.
Dear bus, I hate you.