On the 21C

 

the look they exchange

across the bus aisle

speaks verses of

world-weary inevitability

 

like a thirty nine-year old guy

constantly crossing roads

to avoid car salesmen

and the patient smirks

 

as he passes by

the sleazy ranks

of red sports convertibles

 

they knew what was coming –

 

the man sitting behind them

keeping rhythm in grunts

as he adds another stain

to the purple raincoat

 

his mother bought him

before she got ill

and he had to learn to like

cold baked beans

 

kids call him Barney

on their way home from school

as he drags trolleys back

and forth beneath a spitting sky

for minimum wage

 

he doesn’t know why

they call him Barney

when that’s not his name –

 

that tune

it’s the same old chorus

white female snipers aiming

accusation at the black mother

burdened by far more

than her Aldi carrier bags

 

are your sons

rappers, thugs, drug dealers

or basketball players

 

if they asked

the answer would be

he’s taking his A-Levels –

 

are the last thing

on her scattered mind

since the only result

that matters is residing

untold in her satchel

 

two streets ago was her stop

but she’s busy

silently composing apologies

because if it’s true

dad will kill her

and the guy’s face is a blank

Smirnoff has a lot

to answer for

 

and she promises to never drink again

if only there are blood spots

when she gets home –

 

he’ll be pacing the house

demanding to know

what use a woman

who can’t provide food

 

for a working husband

breathing down her neck

as she arranges stainless steel

and garum masala

reaching for the hated

wooden spoon

still bent from the night

he whipped up

 

a punishment

and if only the children

keep quiet upstairs

 

things might be alright –

 

except nothing ever works out

even his stupid hair

is working for the other side

falling over his face

 

as he smiles at the old lady

and gestures to the empty space

but she’s either

put off by Megadeth

 

or his ugliness

so he thumbs the volume higher

because f**k her –

 

every which way

wearing his tie like Rambo

he’d flog her like a donkey

and she’d probably enjoy it

 

they’re all s***s

cleavage and eye-shadow

his ex-wife

would be watching

transfixed in the corner

kicking herself as they kicked

off the hotel sheets

he figures this one

 

would secrete gratitude

clearly a single mother

one foot on the pushchair –

 

that clamps him out of reach

of the sticky sweet

fallen and rolling

between seat and pole

 

he tells it to jump back up

but it won’t obey gurgles

and people smile

like he’s being cute

can’t they see he needs their help

 

when he grows up

he wants to be a bird

and fly away –

 

somewhere with beaches

and sexy waiters

that’s where they’re headed

only two weeks to go

 

but until then it’s

humid offices

phone calls

senseless spreadsheets

limp sandwiches

and the boss acting

like he’s in charge

 

grey shapes whizz past windows

tattered billboards predict

that the future is Orange -

 

light signals for traffic

to gradually halt

and honour red,

but the driver’s

 

attention is ensnarled

in a Britney-Beckham-Winehouse

front page shocker

turn to page 4

for pictures

and graphic detail

 

so he did

so he dies

for that look –

 

they exchange

across the bus aisle

speaks verses of

world-weary inevitability:

 

definitely should have walked

Author's Note

[the 21C is a bus route, in case that's not clear]

Let me know if this works ok. Thanks.

Reviews

[DavidRyan]

Brilliant. So brilliant. The way you start off with a glare between two people and then weave seamlessly in and out of other people's lives on the bus. Great imagery on everything from the "new stain on the raincoat" to the woman with the "thug" children who get A's. Well done. I can't wait to re-read this.

[Samith Pich]

OMG. This poem is so good, it's fantastic. I must confess, I originally read this poem as 21C as a poem providing a snap shot of the 21st Century and I felt it was just as strong because of it. So many great images, so many twisted lines:

'the man sitting behind them
keeping rhythm in grunts
as he adds another stain
to the purple raincoat

his mother bought him
before she got ill
and he had to learn to like
cold baked beans'

It's a rant and a monologue and a hard glimpse of life and 21C. So amazing, I'd love to hear this poem live...

Thanks for sharing

[W.k.kortas]

To say it works would be the understatement of the current millenium. It is brilliant, nothing less.

[F. Nazarov]

I told you I'd get to it :D (I should work on speed!)
Anywho, lately as a frequent bus rider, I really
effin love this piece. I have always been fascinated by the unique stories
that people have. It's the best way to learn and get a glimpse of
what life truly is, you did a great job in describing all of it.
I've never seen one person on the bus who doesn't look
"world-weary". I guess we all have something in common.
C. I effin loved it, great job.

[emmajoy]

It works brilliantly!

As I read through this twice - second time aloud .. I could see a black and white cartoon strip = little or no humour but an amazing coloured incursion into people's lives. I'll re-read it because somewhere i'll have missed something.

[Emily B]

oh, s**t!!!!!! I wasn't ready for this . . . but I couldn't look away either. It works. It works so well. . . and the title was perfect and clear.

This is a favorite. I need to read it a hundred more times to feel like I have a handle on it. But, wow!