She sparkles elegantly as I press my head

Against the greasy night bus window,

St Paul’s Cathedral looms above its friends,

His history worn like cloak and dagger,

Hidden danger, intrigue and a little romance too.

The bus jolts with a gentle ease and doors

They open with a hiss, allowing men too drunk to stand

To stumble on and sit up front, the scent

Of vodka and a box of Marlboro Lights.

They titter like a pair of women over washing lines,

Missing yet another bridge, through Westminster

Where the laws are made and men from public schools

Tell us that they know us well, that they will fight

For all the things that ease our pain, when really

Only the glorious glow of the rising sun

Kissing the Thames will ease that rawness

Binding me, those drunken men, the teenage girl

Crying on the back seat, probably just dumped

By her boyfriend of two weeks – she’ll live.

London, you can fix it all with ghostly pasts

That teach us lessons as we lay our small hot hands

On the brickwork built from ashes of a fire

We learnt about in history lessons as we snoozed.

On the night bus it makes sense – finally.

Thank you London, for your classroom love.