Poetry: Of Public Buses and Rainy Days

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Lightning split the sky and thundered,

Electric blue the gray clouds sundered;

The rickety minibus skidded on wet concrete,

Weaving through rush-hour traffic on city streets.

It smelt like wet leather and misery,

Dripping seats and handholds slippery;

The crowd converged as the tires screeched,

They pushed and they clawed till the door was reached.

The rain beat down on fatigue-bent shoulders,

The burnt out faces of overtaxed householders;

Boots stepped on sandals and cheap heels broke,

The vehicle lurched forward, the engine belched smoke.

A briefcase-wielding pensioner came running after,

Waved, shrieked obscenities, bellowed at the conductor;

Hanging by the door, the young men laughed,

Time’s up, they conveyed on the conductor’s behalf.

He yelled, he ran, he lunged for the door–

The steps had been rained on, mud-slick the floor;

Fingers found the handlebar, a boot touched the metal step,

A single slip, lost footing, a tiny misstep.

Run over, roadkill, accident case,

All that remained – bones jutting from mangled flesh;

Crimson rainwater clogged the gutters,

Onlookers gathered, heads bobbing, prayers muttered.

The bus sped away, the next due in five,

The crowd will be ready when this one arrives.

Some flesh under wheels is the price we pay,

For four walls, four meals, and a salary day.