Intruders
INTRUDERS
She brought with her a bus queue of troubles,
All waiting for a place in the warm dry seats of my ears:
They trampled my quiet like Mexican spurs,
Insistently prodding me to respond to her fears,
Ringing my stop bell, dropping ticket stubs
Under the seats where a brush won’t sweep
And a mop never rubs.
9 April 2021
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