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.