On the bus (1958)

holes rubbed in the cold glass

showing rain ripping the surface

the slash of dripping tyres

high against the diesel’s throb

suddenly, another face, next to mine

struggling for balance, a wry smile

and the absolute contact

of breasts to breast

and everyone clutches for the rail

the shock of touching floods all over;

the gentle thought tickles the edges of brain

and wheedles to be remembered

the journey begins in half glances

cracks in the floor, stubbed cigarettes,

yellow crumpled tickets

and a pair of black shoes

the creased homecoming trousers of a nodding man,

the seatback, cool, chrome handled

and the curve of a long sandy bay

up a tensioned leg