Forty Four

I'm on the bus, and the night sings

    I have that
Swinging from the rafters feeling
Reeling like I'm not here at all and
I've not even imbibed any alcohol,

    But the world just swirls

And the girls and boys at the back of the bus
Sing a sweeping pop punk chorus,
Revelling in post gig gloriousness
And plans of scoffing late night kebabs.

    All this washes over me

in an icy sea of neon lights and
The right side of my brain flares up again;
Then the left,
As though it cannot stomach silence,
Now, no longer bereft of thought
It proceeds to reel off potential suitors
Then list the reasons they are unsuitable
And scoff.

    And me? I'm in bliss:
Couldn't care less about romantic conquests,
Or lack of them, bathed in inky depths
Of an evening well spent

And besides I'm still busy searching
Lurking uncomfortably in my spirit,
Looking for some kind of purpose
For me to live my life by.

    But maybe

    there's no more than this:
Just buses, night and giddy kids
At the back if the bus
Having conversations at a rate that suggests
they think they might expire soon
So better cram it all in now
Before the doom, destruction, you know, that end thing


And the night sings.