On the Bus God save Jesus hell Below the engine s rumble and purring windows a woman barely audible in her loud yellow blazer stretches across three seats arms folded asserting an ease that repels surrounding passengers The bus lurches into motion and she absent-mindedly unzips her cacophony revealing a crucifix its size indicates the potential for a weapon or lost lover s hand 1 4 6 8 She taps Christ s diminutive bronze chest in time with her counting while staring at the sleeping walkman blaring man slouched near her motionless feet A victim of vehement wrath a prisoner a ghost on burning rafts Her wisps of images infect the sterile atmosphere the uncooked air is made palatable but the thoughtless indifference like salt saturates her flavour and she ceases curls up burying her head between her knees and engages a private demon Minutes pass untouched until a pathetic whimper struggles from this woman s imprisoning enigma Crystal ball children hangman s wife whomever meets his maker knows what is life Shivers lick my spine Amidst the banal there is a colour all eyes act oblivious towards a scent no nose will smell a voice that rings from heaven or cries from hell Her delicate awareness weighs heavy on the insecure majority feigning steel exteriors to mask a wilting personality The whirling cosmos composing this mystery is refused by sports pages and what to do on the weekend debates She has a story a riddle but our fascination with immediacy rejects it as being a nuisance Outside Starbucks (the bus driver s unannounced stop) the suburban conundrum stomps off Advertisements leer knowing that the vapid veneer has been replaced Chocolate bar ads induce an unnatural hunger and vampyric cycles recommence their bloodless war