the bus veers off the main road. a slow, cataclysmic morning.
double decker rolling over
– man made grass
– white picket fences
– miniature playgrounds
– plastic caricatures of children
with a limp limb on the gas, the driver resigns to fate at 10km an hour.
the bus rarely shudders as it ploughs suburban turmoil, floral arrangements, sidewalk poetry, love songs etched in tombstones, crushed under wheels.
“I told you yesterday,” he says, with a dejected, suicide tremor voice, “you shouldn’t be going to school today.”
i’m not gonna make it to the exam.
in hindsight, he had warned me of his plan: today will be the day he ends his career.
and like a lurching animal, the bus knocks down mailboxes, street signs at wheelchair crossroads, dancing poles, goalposts, oblong cages.
half shaven animals are fleeing, running slower than the bus, leaping over potholes and chasms, escaping the diversion of traffic.