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.