This morning, you have forgone
the sullen trudge to work,
spring – two at a time – up bus stairs,
whistle as you settle into a seat
at the front with the world’s best view.
The grey skies are wonderful,
the traffic a joy, one long beautiful
nose-to-tail going nowhere
a symphony of horns
and idling engines.
The city has been washed brighter
overnight. You smile at strangers, cyclists,
policemen, wish chuggers a cheery good day
offer your breakfast pastry
to a figure curled in a shop doorway.
Cackling, you play hopscotch
the length of the high street,
vow to laugh at the boss’s lame jokes.
Vow to try.
Some days, you tell yourself,
are truly magical. What times,
what times, what times to be alive!
© Steve Pottinger
published in Morning Star’s ‘Poetry on the Picket Line’ column on 11th October 2018