On a National Express coach 30.10.2010.

On being unable to sleep aboard a National Express coach.


'The lucky bastards'

I think

when I see them

slumping and nodding

despite the spangling of a mobile

or an Iphone inside which

some twigs

seem to be having sex

or else there's a fire in a pet-shop.

Despite the terse 'hullo',

the non-consequential

fired into the back

of a headrest.

Despite the shoved seat

and fizzed coke.



I long to no longer long

to be drawn along

the mysterious

undertow

as they are,

pushed (or is it pulled)

along that nameless grey corridor,

part of a vehicle

that is going somewhere

magically by standing still,

along that strange trajectory

which is not a straight line

or an arc

but charms

all the way

like some kind

of white lie.