Competition

Highly Commended

Buses in the Rain
by John Egan

The corner Broadway and Harris,
this Autumn afternoon.
waiting for a Leichhardt bus.
Watch the traffic burst the lights,
hum and slide down hill.
Bored witless the thought of going home,
bag stuffed with essays yet to mark.

Consider the movies
where the truth might lie - mysteries
of murder, fantasies of stark,
well-reviewed and soaked with sex,
naked women, the allure of skin
though its their faces tend to take your breath
Two hours' fake romance, acted glamour,
the great Hollywoods of crime and guilt
before the long walk home.

Buses throttle by. The women
all but flashed high-voltage signs
to places precise and well-defined
but far too fast to read -
Don’t be Stupid, Not for You,
They smashed your life in coachline crashes,
wreckage over jagged highways or they roared away,
unscheduled times for fast departure.
The jarring terminals of loss,
connections missed, doors slammed in faces -
the effort travelled so far tossed
in shock of something almost caught.
The mad futility of gone.

Those who stayed, short term lovers,
short term wives, who drove
regular, timetabled, forewarned off
to other destinations than the one
that you were aiming for.

Tyres scramble in the wet,
wheels swirl in spray, buses
like a queue of showgirls curtain-called
glide on stage. The express surge
to anywhere you never go.
Slow droplets falling in the streets
keep dripping into grey. You stand
and wait for buses in the rain.