Catch the bus for me, lover boy.
Drop those clammy coppers and pay your fare.
Wear that duffle coat and the headphones that
bleed your muffled mind inside out.
Avoid the matchstick ladies,
clutching their trolleys like pearls.
Let your cigarette breath fester,
make those old boys like chimneys cough.
Catch the eyes of a breastfeeding woman and panic.
Cradle your blue-brown lip like your mate’s first child,
traumatised and pathetic.
What would it be like to hold a shiny child like an apple?
Would you falter as you lifted the scissors to its cord?
You’re not the father.
Your world won’t change and your days
will still be measured in sunlight.
You could miss that bus all together.