Bus note 22

Look out of the window.
        The roofs of the cars
        gleam with tedious malice.
        Each one is the same, contained.
These days I go too many times past
the entrance to Cannon Hill Park
        from where I ran, a thin kid,
        out from Singing into the downstream road
        to be hit and thrown up a good few feet
with a picture playing out
of a vase of orange roses
smashed and the whole of everything
getting slower and slower
       till I woke up to an angry driver
       and a halfarsed Sun.