You Made Him Cry, You Know?

 You Made Him Cry, You Know?

 

With a grimace another day, find your seat

behind the driver, say something Arabic,

sun up, beginning its long journey west

to dip below Khalifa and come to rest,

and his bus smells like burning clutch,

you're thinking nests, eggs, hens that cluck.

Lucky, that, cos here’s one, she’s getting on

coming up front, behind her, gawky son,

you’ve clocked him a few times, fair hair,

from that cut off land without a prayer

for sunset, bright sparks who assume

it was they that wrote all the best tunes,

like pull up the ladder, batten hatches,

leaving keys for kids who lift the latches;

in blazer pockets, the burning matches.

So why are they here? Ah, it don’t matter,

he’s had your seat that time you were late,

but you let it go. She’s fire behind grates

burning somewhat, shakes fist fingers,

the mist descends. ‘You left him behind,’

she accuses our driver, naming crimes.

In Arabic he speaks of departure times

and looks, careless. She, heaving breasts,

raises her voice as if he must be deaf,

shrieks: ‘You made him cry, you know?”

As if these words deliver some final blow,

she’s glaring, turns to all us other ones

for understanding, surely we can see wrongs

when they’re as clear as this one appears,

but the clock has spoken. It seems no tears

will move him, cos he shrugs, shifts gears,

spins the wheel as the flow up front clears.