The 205

Commuters at the bus-stop stare
At time paid in arrears
Transfixed on the same distance where
The 205 appears

The 205 the 205
Mile End to Paddington
Its layers of compound grime survive
The blasting of the rain

Wheels heave that double-decker ark
Its diesel engines thrum
The Mile End Road is mottled like
A drained aquarium

Unshaved Executives await
A lunchtime press of hands
As punctured bike-tyres half deflate
By empty coffee stands

Delivery lorries haul their cheap
Real ale to The Mash Tun
As hooded pigeons, scramming, creep
Like thieves to Farringdon

Weak barristers from Bow support
Divorce for wife and widow
Poor Angel leans its wearied thought
And forehead on the window

Terse rain is wiped from car windshields
And timetabled en route
The famous graves at Bunhill Fields
Lie manicured and mute

Blue tourist plaques encrust the streets
Stiff and barnacled and numb
My hard and hammering heart repeats
Its brag to Kingdom Come

What trammelled standstill weighs my head
With paralyzed routine?
Why do the traffic lights turn red?
What does the weather mean?

Project Details

  • Date July 9, 2015
  • Tags Paul Abbott The 205