Hands at the ready,
Knees needed like springs,
The bus goes chug-chug,
At the hands of the driver,
Who doesn’t know to break,
Until it’s too late.
You lurch forward,
Knocking into the woman next to you:
A lucky charm hangs behind the driver,
A small pineapple on a string,
So you think of spikes,
Then a pricked finger from Junior School,
Stabbed by the teacher;
A drop of scarlet.
Will you cheat again?
The bus spins around on a two-pence piece,
Without the driver looking in his rear-view mirror,
His secondary object of awareness.
It’s all he needs,
To know he can’t drive,
The way he thinks he can.
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