Innocence waves at the bus rolling by.
Smiles in her eyes, as the yapping dog
of time plays at her feet
And on the corner the brick house laughs at me.
The menacing stare of glaring windows
and toothy door. The trees hide more
ghosts than the cemetery, and overgrown
allotments are always seeded
to grow new stories.
And in the back seat of a passing car
loneliness sits, a faint trail of where
her tears wept, before the sleeve erases
almost all evidence. And she puts on a smile,
a false grin, painted with years of self-loathing.
Mimicking a memory, seeing how it fits.
Hating the way it itches, grating. A new
costume for another day. To store
in the wardrobe of so many costume changes.
The Uber driver just talks about his day.
Oblivious to the battle raging within her head.
In the bar by the way, laughter and chatter,
as outside alone, sadness sits, pint in his grip,
silent. Wishing. Dreaming of a different
drip-feed of life, sips at the thought.
A different pathway in a different time.
Where his love would have sat beside,
if he had shared his heart when he
had the time. Fingers tighten around glass.
But time can be an abusive partner,
making you believe you have
longer than you ever do,
and you miss all the kisses
that could have come to you,
and memories keep floating past.
To the left a field of dreams
to the right
rat-run nightmares.
Victorian brick stained
with modern decorum.
Vape shop, takeaway, pharmacy.
Sainsbury's, the same humdrum,
rundown places of boredom.
The same old sights every day,
The driver sighs.
Whilst on the back seat of the bus
the poet writes,
head in the clouds,
soundtrack pounds
and his heart joins the rush.
For life is so precious,
every strain of every dream,
gifts delivered to his notebook.
