at its mother; someone talks russian
loudly on a cell phone,
three people are reading newspapers
and five are reading books.
Some
sit staring out, or in front of them
at nothing, at everything, at
suburbs passing by, or the City:
it doesn´t matter much. This scene,
with its yellow poles and chequered seats
with black rubber borders along the windows
of the red double-decker bus
was what explosives blew up
on 7/7. Shrapnel ripping flesh,
shattering windows, pressing out steel
mushrooming buses
and Tube trains
fringe fundamentalists
trying vainly to
validate their lives
through killing others
only to find out that if there is a Heaven,
there is also
Hell.
Daniel Skyle © 2010
