Up at the Common where the buses hang around

the buses are hanging around, red vine tomatoes

in a bunch. Still hanging around, the immortals.

Boys in generations have spotted them. They rattle

through Church Street; or they progress past Selfridges

at the speed of a houseboat, showing off an aptitude for London.

Diamond graffiti windows, mouldy upholstery,

rested each Sunday for a garage sabbath with the engineers.

It can’t be long before their definitive retirement.

Through weekdays and Saturdays, wind, rain, sun

and the dull particulate smog of this atmosphere,

drive the blood along our veins, carry us home.

Routemasters