Sinking inside her yellow shirt
Her hair was knotted, her knees were hurt
She filled up that straw,
With little green beads of bravery,
Little green beads leftover from last night’s roast:
One third cow
One third mash
One third peas.
Her cat-breath soft, warm.
Fogging up a little round nose-shaped circle
On the window of that bus.
And the wheels went round and round,
And the baby went wah wah wah.
And the peas went “SWOOSH!”
Flying through the air like stars.
These were not to be wished upon.
The festivities! The fiasco!
Never had the driver, in all his years
Of flattening the creases of his pants
Darning his socks
Puffing on his cigarettes
Seen such a wild, wild mess of children and peas and voices,
Rising like frantic balloons
Would they never stop?
And then: there.
There she was. The little rascal.
Eyes moist and squinted in concentration,
Taking aim.
The final handful of peas, the final inhale
The exhale to end all exhales
Her exodus.
Banished! That one word ‘banished’,
Enough to shoot ten thousand bus drivers in the dead-centre
Of their shiny bald heads.
No
More
Roasts.