Saturday, June 28, 2014

midsummer bus ride

There is nowhere to sit down on
This red London double decker bus
At 7.30 on a Saturday morning.
Seventy wage slaves are already sitting
And twenty more are standing
Between them they probably speak and understand
Thirty languages or more
But nobody says a word.
They all have long journeys behind them
And long journeys before them
Sucked into central London everyday
Like stars into a black hole
Or soap suds into a plughole,
To wait at tables,
To prepare food,
To fill shelves,
To mop dirty floors.
Now many are still half asleep or more
And some, waking up, might wonder
As dreams dissipate
Why am I selling my life
Second by second
For a shit wage?
But the bus rolls on

And, even at 7.35 am,
it's too late.

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