My Picture

Some bus journeys are ordinary,
open windows and traffic running by.
People chewing the food,
watching the world photographed
on giant hoardings, the junkies junk.

Here, it doesn’t matter what Trump does
or how much oil and blood there is in the desert.
You just watch disinterestedly, and ask for more coffee.

The weather stays mostly the same.
And who cares about the Whooping crane
or the Eskimo curlew, they’re probably dead anyway.

So I listened to a podcast, David Byrne
on a desert Island and watched the world go by.
Passing unknown homes and people
screaming at each other.
Nothing left to fight for
and yet angry about the repeats on TV.