Friday, 2 December 2011


The behemoths are comatose by midnight.

In the dark of the depot, the driver rubs his eyes, twice. Awful things only stare in the dead of the moors or in the old house on the hill.

Wish I could see the egg crawl down his face. See him topple in a puddle of batter for the scramble ahead.

She’s waiting for me with a smile. “Friends, you have nothing to lose but your tracks!”

“Ladies and gentlemen, there is a good service...”

The driver wakes me up by 5:30 am. It takes 25 minutes for me to get over my grumbling. I’m no mule, neighing for someone to stick their spurs in my haunch. Hat in hand for the gift of slogging.

Stop 1 at 6:30 am. She’s been there since 6:25 am, stalling.

“Exhausting this!” I puff a black column of smoke from my backside. She speeds off.

Stop 2, rush hour at 7:10 am. The wolves descend on my belly. They’d eat their own to fill the space. Good countrymen pitched in a gentleman’s war. A noose couldn’t hang their heads lower.

At 7:30 am I add up all the angles and dolts - the bodies, the tracks, the rails, the screeches, the rats - and get two odious sine curves that would dip you to the point of puking.

It goes on like this till the end of the day.

Stop 1 again at ten to midnight.

A prayer couldn't hang my head lower. Hat in hand for the gift of resting.

I’m asleep by midnight.

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