In Spain

there were four, maybe five of us

(but, thinking back, it could have been a hundred)

standing around by the bus stop

catching death from the spray that

reached out from under the wheels of passing cars

and every time a bus drew up

(which was seldom)

no one got on, and

even fewer ever got off

and one or two of ‘em were trying to smoke

but the rain soaked their cigarettes

before they were halfway through

while I

could actually FEEL the colours drip

from my sweater through to

the white vest I’d parked underneath

and stain it with that half – assed grey

not even true black

eventually,

tired of trying to protect my newspaper

in the inside pocket of my faded brown leather jacket

I resolved to jump on the first bus

that came along.

Sure enough, it took longer than the rest

(‘cause there’s no karmic payoff otherwise)

and I had no idea where it was headed

but, when I finally found myself inside

shivering and dripping by a

steamed up window

gritting my teeth in a sea of drenched overcoats

I noticed something;

a thin voice echoed back from the drivers’ compartment

singing, almost whistling

softly, to himself

“Just what makes that little ol’ ant

think he’ll move that rubber plant

everyone knows that ant can’t

move a rubber tree plant…”

and then I heard it

a low hum,

somewhere from within that mist of bodies

standing up, clutching the over head rail

hitting the chorus

“But he’s got high hopes

he’s got high hopes…”

and then another voice, female

mouse – like

rising

“…pineapple pie in the sky hopes…”

and then the guy in the seat behind me joined in:

“…anytime you’re getting low

‘stead of letting go, just remember that ant…”

until, by the time the second chorus rolled around

– and I swear to god, this is all true-

the whole damn, packed – to – the – gills bus was

joining in

“He’s got High Hopes

he’s got High hopes…”

even me, and

I thought back, as we rolled ever onwards

of the folks left back at the bus stop

their drooping cigarettes and

drowned newspapers sticking out of pockets

picturing the river bursting her banks

and claiming it all back

businesses, courthouses, officeblocks

and leaving a tiny island

a little warm spot

for those of us

who don’t care where we’re going.