Sue Butler
The Number Eight Trolley Bus
is persimmon orange,
packed so tight the doors won’t close,
so we take the number two
all the way to the station,
though it might have been quicker to walk.
And I still have to stand
so near you it’s almost sexual,
always through fabric, my shirt blood-red,
the label in the back
revealing it’s not mine by right
but from a staging of Rigoletto,
now gone dead.
Yours, ironed this morning
by the hotel concierge,
is stained with tar,
which the beggar at the bazaar
smeared on your chest, when you said
No, refused to be blackmailed
but handed your money
to a Parsee woman carrying a baby.
And when there is only a stop to go,
a missing drain-cover rocks the bus.
In the upset
my bare forearm touches yours
and I remember
we’ve only just met.
Page(s) 35
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