An announcement that buses have replaced trains for the evening rush hour

has become a soundtrack for the city’s growing pains.  A guy in hi-viz

redirects bewildered passengers decanted in the drizzle

onto the pavement’s terra incognita; tchicking from the side of his mouth

to show regret that it’s the wrong bus, or the bus didn’t show up,

to impart a conspiratorial confidence about the clowns in head office.

He peers over his glasses to convey authority, help the message along.

From my seat on the old bus dragooned into service I’m looking down

at his grey tonsure; afternoon light 

seeps into the bark of his weatherbeaten neck.

He comforts lost passengers as they implore him with their eyes

tote bags emblazoned with logos that should have been beside them

on the train’s brightly patterned, faux-velvet seats, mere encumbrances now

as they’re crowded together like aristocrats fleeing Brumaire.  I’m a little

envious: how

at home he seems, a lighthouse against which the currents of public transport

break with flimsy spray.  How fortunate he seems in his work

as are all those whose materials leap to their hand,

whose hand teaches them the task,

whose task offers up its grain to be found and followed.

​

Catchment Poetry of Place December 2024