Chances should come with stickers –
carrying instructions, like which buttons to press,
which way to turn
and how to survive those innocuous bouts
of life that intercede,
with their damp edges that peel way
and which always leave me stuck,
with nought but a panoply of wetness;
extremities made of stodge and glue,
at the very point where I thought
my life would start, until
I’d always dig a bit more,
only to find I had no real chance at all.
So, I have nothing.
On most days, I lift a dirty nail
to scape that crimped and lifeless
pape mache, only to reveal
the plastic drudge of the rain soaked window,
on this bus going nowhere –
to be fair, this bus takes me places
while I sleep, and feel safe,
and where I can sometimes peep under the skirtings
of life’s bitter edge without having
to peel it away. Most days.
Ultimately, the traffic of heavy breath
unwittingly peels away the crudities
waiting for me once I get off;
such is the nature of rain soaked passengers
and do gooders all mixing to make my life hell.