The bus-driver feels she's flying,
this big thing all hers at last –
only me down the back, part scared and part alight.
The svenue of fig-trees is clapping as we pass,
she and I separately peering up
through exhilarating leaves and sun.
Her eyes are sloe and white, her nostrils flared.
The joy of it flows down her generous arms
and through the whole damn bus.
She jams us to a halt
and five old blokes get on,
not-so-fresh from the RSL
where they've been drinking, smoking and plugging coin
into cheerful, greedy, electronic trash.
We're ten yards late in stopping, and they're derisive :
"Ah, it's an Abo-driver!"
They roll down the aisle and then we're off,
at break-neck speed again
but everything is changed.
She's turned kamikaze: you can see it in her back
and everything about her screams,
"I'll kill these bloody whities!"
I didn't know how to say it,
"Come, sister, come:
stop the bus, take the keys;"
how to breathe in deep, and demand of her,
"Come, sister:
Let's you and me get down
until they leave, and go their ways,
then we'll go on."