THE BOTTLE
You are sitting,
watching,
waiting,
for the bus when
a glimpse of
green
(glistening glass rolling,
slowly,
then faster
and faster,
a beer label chasing its tail
dizzied colour, a blur
of
redyellowblackand
white on
green)
comes rolling into view.
The road dips, and on its roller coaster ride it
slows;
now a pendulum,
backwards,
forwards,
oscillating,
and then stops.
It lies there
daringly
playing chicken,
and as a car approaches
emerald eyes twinkle
cheekily, laughingly,
while yours, frozen, anticipate
slamming shut
when
green shrapnel, rocketing, slices
through the air
and skin.
The car whizzes by missing it by an inch.
As does the next car.
And the next.
And the one after that.
(you sit hiding behind your paperback novel,
a shield against green daggers,
and yet you still flinch at the sound
of the motorcar engines
that threaten
your false sense of security;
and you wait)
Just
as it seems
the suspense
will engulf you,
the bus approaches,
growling and hissing and spitting,
and it heaves up the incline and draws
to
a
shuddering
stop.
You board,
relieved to escape,
and f r e e f a l l
to the window at the back
as the bus lurches forwards.
Then,
pressing your pale face against
the streaky glass, you watch
the telescoping
juggler
casually bouncing emeralds
off the dazzling sun.
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