Night Bus Home

Drunk with tiredness. I got the text, I'm on my way. What happened next? It was a night out, like all the others done before-soon done, and soon forgotten; pockets lighter, legs tireder.

Waiting in the wind. Smell the stink of cigarettes as fingers go to the nose wiping away that snot which the elemets bring.

On board. Full of the drunken people excited and sad riding the night bus home (or to somewhere better, to carry the night on which they think will never stop-but it will-I wonder who's awake?) hoping for warm beds after a cold night out. The chill does not concern them, make them stay indoors; they're out, and it will not stop there journey back either.

Left old friends and made them anew. Packed. But it don't matter; everyone is chatty and they'll all talk along.

Can't even see outside as smiley face is made in window to cheer yourself as you carry on, sitting and waiting for your stop to arrive next to drunk stranger or some man going to work with rough hands as he sleeps alone, preparing for the day ahead. You'll never know cos you're getting off next stop to see your girl who you love, and that's all that matters, really.

Micheal Jackson leaning as the bus slows down. Bell's been dung; hop out and stagger off; it don't even feel cold anymore.

It's the last stretch. Talk to a fellow companion, he must have been out as well. Shout about nothing.Laughing, as you borrow a light. 'Have a good night' you yell at 4 in the morning as your mirror goes the other way.

The windows not locked. Lift it up and climb through, into warm bed,next to her. 'You scared me' she says sleepily. 'I'm like father Christmas, except I come through the window; your present is me, you like it?' you say with beer and love on your breath, and in your heart.

'Yes. Merry Christmas'.