Sunday Night Last Bus

A poem meditating on the thoughts of a traveller taking the last bus home on a Sunday night.

Sunday night last bus
An empty drink can rolls about the floor
Signalling the end of a-not-quite-summer’s day
But the man who just got on is full of drunk
And the smell of beer rolls down the aisle along with the remnants of an energy drink
That has probably fuelled
The argument of the teenage couple in the seats at the back
Who miss their stop because they are too busy arguing
Yet they kiss ferociously in the street when the bus stutters away
Desiring the Hollywood effect on their small-town tongues
And in the car headlights, flashing past
They are happily captured in the spotlight
Forced upon a captive audience
On the Sunday night last bus, which soon empties
And we all roll away down our different little aisles
Wondering how many times we missed our stop too.

Rosie writes in her spare time and is currently working on a collection of short stories. She lives in Margate.

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