By Sue Johns
Every carriage erupts into
the body-language of delay.
The frantic phone tapping
as schedules unravel.
With the driver’s knuckles
still white on the handle,
one under
and the brakes burning,
rubberneckers are corralled
and commuters bussed
as we linger
powerless.
Until someone ‘snaps’ the torso,
on a bed of purple buddleias,
with its contrasting blue logo
‘Just Do It’.
Until someone collects the limbs
and ticks the box for not suspicious.
But we’ll be going nowhere
until they find the head.