Death On The 44A

DEATH ON THE 44A

Frail bones and wrinkled skin
At a snails pace crawled in
Hair coifed to reflect still sanity
Hold out hand to balance drivers’ minor tyranny

The slowed rush to be seated
In floral skirt, eighties pleated
The need to talk to dolly sheep clone
Overcome with joy when shared gossip is known

Shopping trolley
A prop merely to stand
Bread, milk, butter (NOT margarine)
Two slices of baked ham

Pop off for a wander
Once more at snails pace
Cup of tea in worn out cafeteria
With greasy cups and chipped patterned plates

Rusted joints and bruises from falls
Back to the bus they do slowly crawl
In time for rush hour, to make you feel guilty
For being sat on pensioners seats
Where death really should be…

(Written on the 17th, 18th and 26th of June 2009)

(c) Shane Simmons 2009