I like the desperate for fags people.
I like that we’re all on this bus together
and that no one minds I’m writing a poem.
I even like the one who’s threatening to find
a fictional gangster from a television show
and get someone fucking sorted out.
I admit,
I even,
like her.

I like the philosopher who sits at the front
and says you’ve got to have a laugh, driver,
at the end of every sentence she utters
and I believe she has empirically
tested that proposition
and found it, to be true.
I like her,
best of all.

I like the beautiful boy who’s going into town
on that first date,
sweeping his phone and sweatshop finery
as if getting updates
from the stock market of his inner life,
toying in his mind and hands
with changing his status.
We all
love him
a little bit.

I like that the desperate for fags people and the philosopher
and the driver and the beautiful boy and the poet
are showing the true existence of society
and that we are all genuinely in this together,
whilst hiring hit men, laughing and maybe,
I don’t know, having sex, are all possible
on a public transport that is, after all,
the acme of social living in one place or another.

I like
all of this
very much.