Dark clouds overhead
The air-conditioning is at full blast
I can feel the chill
nipping at the back of my neck
It’s hardly pleasant
this unrestrained blast of winter air
False, manufactured winter air
The interior of the bus moves
A darkened mobile cave
The lights come on, quickly, efficiently, like the winter of the air-conditioning vent
My hair is cold to the touch
Outside, construction workers sit
Their shirts sticking to their backs
I didn’t mean to write a poem
It just happened.
It’s not a poem, really
Just prose cut up
It’s been so long since I’ve taken the bus; my colleagues have been gracious.
There are many things I don’t wish to do on this island. One is driving a car. My driving licence is just that. A license to drive. Doesn’t mean I actually want to.