The back of a bus
One man, alone; and, behind and around,
a jagged curve of five. All are in middle age:
we are looking at the back of a bus. Noisy and full.
None of them is really smart. But some look clean;
and some have costly clothes quite rumpled.
Each is at some distance from looking good.
The one and the five are not all together.
The five, unrulily jolly, sprawling and facetious,
one-upping each other spatially and with gesture;
the solitary man, like a worm repulsed by heat,
recoils from stale clothes borne tobacco smoke
in a closed warm container full of bad breath.
It's not important. Camaraderie of ritualised aggression
keeps the curve constant, and the one apart.
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