Miracles

Upstairs, steam-dripped
by every breath,
becoming condensation
it sticks, a vertical film

on the inside of the windows
of the fan-packed top deck,
aboard the lane-swaying
Number 29 to Brighton:

I sit, as usual, with too much
of the bus-shift-and-tip;
meaning that my forever
poorly-travelled nausea

threatens, from somewhere,
to become a public thing,
to be my fellow passenger
(Otto’s) thrown-up problem;

so I roll my eyes inwards
to cheat my tilted brain,
and by the time we reach
the stop called Earwig Corner

I am away, off in another place,
to stored recall’s sinking edges,
inside the most private
of our human experiences:

So holding back the vomit,
with this old-time trick of closure,
of not looking out to half distances,
but instead by looking within

my journey is thus managed;
sight is restored by the push of mud
underfoot as we step off the bus
to witness miracles at The Amex.


 

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