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.