six solemn backs of heads
sit serene in solitude,
unique as antique plates
with chips, patterns and histories
but plates all the same.
dust coats my finger as
half-conscious, i collect muck;
a minor detail of matter.
here bus tickets lie like
scattered reminders of time.
the bus carries me to town
by hook or by crook,
and the clock stops as i travel.
there spiritual laws unravel
like knicker elastic,
in rare breaks between
time binding and surreal snakes
of tick-tock watching.
there is silence and potential
in this daily journey.
i gift the bus driver with
a wonky grin, an open-hearted wish,
then rub rank, velvet seats
that stink of piss
with my nail-less fingers.
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