Hello 243

Or why the bus needs new brake pads

Two Four Three to Wood Green.

Today I got on the 243 with the worn out brakes and chalk board rotors.
All 31 stops from Holborn Station to Lynmouth Road, I was reminded that I need to find
My head phones and preferably before tomorrow morning.
I was reminded of my brain pulsing idly and why I took an Aleve only 3 hours ago.
Surely the combined £1.30 of all of these bus-goers could have paid for
A new set of brake pads or at least complementary ear plugs like the cheap orange ones
That were all over the house when my brother worked at the refinery.

Today I got on the 243 with the chatty group of hat-lovers and plaid-buttoners headed to Dalston.
The bus was mostly empty spare a few who looked as though their Mondays
Had been as mundane as mine but this girl decided to sit so close to me
That I could count the number of hairs in her left brow when she turned to look out my window.
She sat so close that I could hear the person on the other end of her conversation
Speaking in fast-paced Spanish. However my 5 years of poor public school Spanish classes could
Only translate something about the vestido she wore last night and problems with her novio.

Today I got on the 243 with the bus driver who has never known motion sickness.
He drives like it’s a two door Smart Car with the speed of a Lotus Esprit that he stole from
A shady back alley dealership somewhere in the depths of Hackney.
He never sat for too long in the back seat of a hot minivan as a child
While visiting the Grand Canyon in the dry desert of Arizona in August.
I’m certain he has no idea what Dramamine or Hyoscine is or what the paper bag
Tucked in the pocket underneath the tray table on a 747 airliner is actually for.
He probably loves boats and Carnival Cruises and his organs feel best when shifting and sloshing.

About Caren

A typical alcoholic poet living in London
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