Claire Booker NIGHT BUS
You’re wedged on the aisle side
all breath’d up from the rush for a seat,
blocked by a blether of faces.
In a moment, you’ll see me.
A veiled woman holds her baby
to the window. I float through this Pietà
attempting to catch your eye.
The baby pat-a-cakes my reflection,
mouths something profound.
As the bus throttles up,
your face begins its fragile journey of turning
towards me.
Claire Booker lives by the sea in the south of England. Her poetry pamphlets are The Bone That Sang and Later There Will Be Postcards. She blogs at www.bookerplays.co.uk
Read the two short plays by Claire printed in Issue Five