Bussing in Glasgow

Not that I like to, just that I have to
Bus through Glasgow, enduring
The rattles of motion sickness, 
As the change of commuters 
Shake the bus as a piggy bank.

I turn up my headphones 
But cannot turn down the smell of
Smokers, stoners and homes without
Dryers. Mouldy clothes waft through
The aisles of the bus. I try mind

My business but their lack thereof
Reminds me what it means to bus
Through Glasgow. Youths from the shop
Always with their feet on the seat,
Always banging on the window shouting.

Why can’t they understand 
Decency. The silence of sitting. I know
The windows are foggy, the stops unclear.
We all want off but must stay on.
Why make the commute so long?

Eighty minutes of my day,
Four hundred hours of my week,
The 38B shakes off of me.
All for a school day with no pay.

I steel my resolve like council steals
The city of good roads and tube lines.
I weather the artic ventilation and 
Tolerate the madness in this bus.