THE TRAVELLER ON THE BUS

With the camper’s backpack he plonks beside him

on the bus seat, and his sci fi books,

which he reads spine broken, folded on themselves,

with his long brown hair with only wisps on top,

and the moustache he wears, down to the jawline drooping,

with his threadbare jumpers, with his torn, frayed jeans,

I think sometimes the traveller’s stooping frame

would lead me backwards to a better time

if I followed him when he got off the bus.

But I wouldn’t do it. The better world has gone

if there ever was one, and I doubt my brain

could have coped with not being locked in war

with the age I live in, though I love to dream.