The night bus

Fragranced with soft notes of McDonald’s
and the distant alluring aroma of sweat and sick.
Carefully decorated with
a stray plastic bag,
a forgotten scarf,
a half devoured bag of Wotsits.
Here we are.
Each seat filled with
lonely mutes wearing loud LED hats,
beside them headless funsters
sink further into their knitted jumpers
adorned with tiny cats
lonely mismatched, bewildered loudmouths
are seething in their bitter feud
as the latest night-bus performance ensures.
We’re all in this together.
There is a seat with unmentionables.
which each eager new bus member
rushes toward
and then backs away, horrified
crawling over each other to avoid.
And we each carry our sad, uncooked slithers of potato,
as if trophies,
throwing soggy yellow fat into our pie holes.
Washing it down with a warm, long since lively can,
a lacklustre meal of champions
To soak up the misery
To drown out the noise
Of the sixth form lads loudly proclaiming their everlasting love
for whoever they’ve consciously ignored until taken by another
Verbally clawing at each wimpering chance they didn’t take to find a lover.
Speaking from experience,
without experience.
A bottle rolls delicately along the aisle
then smashes into a wall
before making it’s way back to it’s original resting place.
But no one ever has the heart to release it from it’s constant cycle
so there it goes, back and forth
breaking neither the silence, nor the ice.
Reminding us
of truths we’re trying not to face
the ones we were drinking to ignore.
The night bus
a journey through a city, but nothing to explore.
The night bus
we know our destination
but not what we’re heading for.