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.