Category: Poetry

Rhythms Along the Grey

Slate eyes, drawn by compulsion, to a watch, ever ticking.
Always somewhere to be, something to be…
Flicking deft hands along a tailored suit to sharpen its edges,
Scrubbed clear of lint and hidden creases, an inbuilt calculation.
A briefcase, attached to the second wrist of a creature drawn in frown lines –
The scars of corporate resolve, weighing stronger…
As the bus is delayed even longer.

He settles his pride for a haggard bench, wiping the perch with a sleeve,
With never a glance, never consideration of the slum that shelters him –
Of grinding advertisements, stuttering wantonly,
Advising the masses to do this, buy that, go there,
The billboards of budget-seekers;
Of cigarette butts and whippet canisters;
Of youths, uncouth, ill-advised, impoverished and yearning for a guiding hand,
Met only with indifference;
Of stains and panes marked with cracks, once pristine;
Of green seats and blue backs of fading plastic,
Broadly moulded by the public’s weight;
Of simple shelters, repeating endlessly,
Metal checkpoints in fleeting motion, a flame to the moth of civilisation,
So routine, they’re barely perceptible…
He’s blind to many things when the delay becomes unacceptable.

It is when the day sequesters and musings catch their final trains,
When streetlamps give birth to gnats and midges and mayflies in the rain,
That his bench becomes a resting ground –
The morning dirt reformed with grimy duvet covers and cardboard sheeting,
Arranged with minimal prominence, as if by some grand design,
For privacy is a rare and coveted luxury.
And under these blankets slides a person,
As broken ankles and stinking soles, the totems of wandering, find respite.
A complex life, enshrined by cold,
Convulsing to gain purchase amidst the fraying seams of restful immersion,
Before the buses renew their mindless excursion.

Days tick along but traces remain of diminished and fleeting souls,
Seeking solace and restoration.
A considered sniff may reveal the cloying reek of negligence:
Trash and refuse left alone to seep into cracks and gutters.
Or, perhaps, a glance around could widen a man’s perspective:
The rhythms, though vast in frequency,
Vibrating with elasticity.
Colliding, bouncing, warping, tumbling in and around each other,
Crafting melodies where the mind may be accustomed to white noise.
A gardener leaning on a glass panel, blithely counting cars;
Two sisters gossiping; their voices are hushed,
Spilling secrets and promises before a winding journey home;
A pensioner raising his lighter to a blunt and popping chapped lips;
A Chevy mounting the kerb, commandeered by four pubescent boys,
Throwing crude gestures from the window like bullets in a drive-by shooting;
An author stroking his partner’s hair,
Trying to conquer his public anxiety and failing;
A mannequin of a man narrating loudly over the phone.
A collage of existence, interwoven with frustration,
As eyes find others, equally confounded as to the bus’ location.

When it finally arrives, he pushes right to the head of the queue,
Still in a bustle; it makes no difference.
An uncaring flick of his card, a brisk stash of his briefcase,
He’s seated, settled; his pride surmounting,
Eyes recounting the seconds lost as his fellow passengers shuffle down the aisle –
A bunched host of chaotic lives, uneasily connected…
As he ponders all the paperwork he’s neglected.