Lewisham 436

At every stop the doors
of the bus swing back,
chill quickly gulps inside,
seeps around passengers
who pull their clothes to,
jackets tightened, collars
up, hands in armpits.
Little black boy stumbles
on the step, his mother
heaves his puff jacket
sleeve and he climbs up.
Their breath condenses
on the window as they
squeeze into a corner.
The rings on her hand
glow like cold butter.

At Peckham the bus
unloads by a half,
grizzled pensioners trudge
onto the pavement, thumbs
fixing at their buttons.
Beefy men with hats
snug around their crops,
monotone Santa's helpers,
grimly cup their chops
in black sausage fingers.
I'm the only white one,
until a red nosed girl
in a polyester coat
steps on with a stench
of hairspray, her snowy,
bloodless knuckles grip
bags of clothes, bottles
from the drug store,
two pink magazines
tucked under her arm.
She takes a seat with
a slight flounce as if
her chariot were late.

Outside, a soup sky.
Concrete thumbs point up:
residential tower blocks.
Busses the same as this
criss cross and stall
to halt by blue rows
of stamping passengers.
Among the leaves crows,
jet black, squabble
and flex their talons.