Embra buses

I like tae sit at the front of the bus
and keek through the hole
at the driver’s heid.
As he pulls on the wheel
and gives the odd cuss
he disnae ken I’m there.

You can see the hale world fae the tap of a bus:
turbans and burkas, saris wi cardis,
kilts wi Doc Martens,
spiky-haired Goths,
Hoodies and Neds in Burberry caps,
Morningside ladies in sensible hats.

Traffic wardens, grey as sharks
with fluorescent stripes, circle
ready tae strike.
The blind man’s dug sits obedient at the kerb,
his flesh flabby.
I’d gie him a guid run.

We stop-start, shoogled aboot in our seats
by traffic cones, road-works,
jaywalkers and drunks.
Crash go the branches
as we lean intae a corner.
Haud tight! Ting! Ting!
We fa doon the stairs.