Flakes
That pregnant woman at the bus terminal,
has she nothing better to do than pick
old green paint off a bus stop seat?
When buses arrive she doesn’t look up,
doesn’t scan passenger faces. Young.
Keeps her ring finger well hidden.
When I sit at this terminus
the people must think I’m waiting for someone,
like maybe a soldier back from the war
who’ll step from the very next bus,
with a smile as wide as his open arms
then he'll claim me, claim us,
like we’re something he can’t live without.
Everyone must wonder which man’s mine,
which handsome one is the father.
Into the hard paint now, using her thumbnail
to worry off scabs. She’s not going anywhere
– no baggage. Except the baby of course,
her ticket to the welfare state.
That bald guy in pinstripes, he’s watching me
like he’s never seen a mother-to-be before.
Creep! Does he think that I don’t know
bus fumes are bad for my littlie?
How clumsily she gets to her feet,
leans back to balance the unborn child,
waddles away up High Street
leaving a scarred seat behind,
just like yesterday.
