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There’s A Mature Lady Crying On The Bus

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The Soul Unto Itself

I step on the bus from Cheetham Hill
& sit down & take my seat. It’s calm.

A man is speaking Punjabi though
I don’t understand it much. I thought

he was talking to himself but he’s not.
Another spoke Spanish with his mate.

I don’t understand it much.
A mature lady sits at the front.

She dons a pink woolly bobbled hat,
covering disheveled metallic hair

nervously biting her fingernails.
Thick black framed glasses obscure

her blush red eyes. She’s crying
as she whimpers on the phone.

I can’t fathom what she’s saying.
Partly ignored, we sped towards our

destination and on reaching
the central stop I step off behind her.

Clutching Burberry bowling bag
she melts away into the evening

as I footstep to the Crown & Kettle.
God made yeast as well as dough.

Poem: Vibrant Street Scenes: Observing of Performers and Passersby


Author Skendong

Metamorphosing Clunky Narratives

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