J H Martin is from London, England but has no fixed abode. His writing has appeared in a number of places in Asia, Europe and the Americas.
Back Seat Driver
Seven – three – six
Time to get back on the bus
Time to get back on that wagon
Time to head back around these bends again
With their sun glittered birch
And their empty shelters
I watch them give way – as they always did
To diverted traffic
Which circles and backs up this litter bin mind
With microgram trash and fast fried flashbacks
All of them ghost years and badly smeared stains
Which bear no relation and have no connection to
This pressing window of Monday to Friday
And its Nine to Five
No – that primary school and those blue pallet stacks
And all of these people –
Wrapped up in their parkas and their scarves and their hats –
All of them have their own window to look through
And to see what they see
Here – but still there
Who am I to tell them any thing at all?
Is it January in Tongzi? Or is it Topoľčany in March?
Sat in front of my own self
This back seat driver couldn’t even claim to know that
For now – as it was – and as it has been for years
It’s still stuck on the same street – this faded store front
Which used to sell charm and its cheap knock-off dreams
To anyone fooled by its once filled out frame –
This now fraying seat this plastic fixture
This reflection I see in that iced window pane –
A grey hooded stranger in hand me down clothes
Who loves where he stays but cannot stand where I am –
Back on this bus and back on that wagon
A passenger craving far more than he needs