ME Muir

AIR II                                     

 

later the heavy burdened air

struggles to lift off

as the jet stream

 

pauses

lungs lose momentum

Celsius hits 40

 

a gauze of bankrupt breath

escapes from runners lined

along Victoria Embankment

 

children play slowly

when aggressive NOx

carbonises schoolruns

 

my hand closes on a can of coke

summer stutters

over the yellow grass.

 

© ME Muir

 

The Culture of Bus Stops

 

As the culture of bus stops appropriates Iphigenia,

the L shape, pole and bench                                                      

the T shape, shelter or an altar.

 

Or macho and alone, the basic I

even the O, no sign no post,

it only stops for locals.                                                                 

 

The culture of bus stops is an alphabet of childhood,

optimism handholding

late for school.

 

If I hitch my tartan skirt above my knee

will this tall Achilles be intrigued

even enamoured?

 

Misspent waiting with Georgina on a Friday night

we make the letter U to hitch a lift,

considering the concept of orgasm.

 

By the golf course at St.Andrews when the last bus

has gone indelibly locked together

it is truly a W.

 

The culture of bus stops is dying now with smartphone takeover

no timetable, no A to Z,

no map.

 

Just the indeterminate direction to a blanked out vehicle

with no upstairs, no caps,

just lower case.

 

A culture of sacrifice.

 

© ME Muir

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