The town clock moves its big hand
Awaiting the bus, it is noticed
Soon the toaster on wheels
will take us to the big smoke
There is a queue
with gaps between two or three gabbing
one leaning against the wall puffing,
two on the bench staring,
at cars going by.
She skips it, the nun
hovers on by, right to the edge
to the edge of the curb
where this bogus bus
will clutch and break.
The other side of the street,
grows its shadow, the sun is in the east
In the windscreen of a parked car
the lamp post is a crucifix
As far as she’s concerned
she’s getting on first.