York in Poetry: Buses

Posted on 24 November 2012 | Audio, Poem

Buses come down my street
A street barely wide enough for cars
Whose driver’s shiny paint job egos
Crawl by through gaps
Just wide enough for buses.
But not so wide as flaring mirrors
Flying by at just the height
To take the head of any foe

My street is not on a bus route
But on the route from the end of the line
To the depot where in line they wait, snorting
For the wash or to be stowed away
The first driver back going home first

At night my street is a chicane
For contesting buses whose upper decks
Sway from mounting the curb
Just feet away from the terraced homes’
Upper bedroom windows
Silent spectators of this someday deadly race

Buses come down my street
Which is barely wide enough for cars
But not as wide as the flaring mirrors
Which my head knows are just its height
They hurt

- Alan Gillott
First published in “Beyond the Window”, published by Fighting Cock Press