By Michelle Green

Location: On the A676 (Wigan Road) leading into Bolton

six thirty pm
and the remains of the most expensive cheese sandwich I’ve
ever eaten
cling to the crevasses
of my slowly dissolving
back teeth

the baby at the rear of the bus
fusses
and frets
over her drink box
as her father’s tattooed hand follows his soft voice
smoothing her into a seated position
You can sit next to me and drink your drink

the sun keeps its winter eye trained on the horizon
we move forward
a blur of last week’s magazines
and mobile phone threats from the man
with no van
and no plan
I’ll have ye fer dinner ye cunt!
and in perfect unison we all move
particles of water
away
from the spit of hot oil in the fourth row from the back
he bellows into his phone
I’ll have yeeee
and the sweet sour smell of afternoon sick
and drinking
clings to the edges of the chairs and pulls itself
slowly up the aisle

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