TRƆTRƆ - Kwadwo Kwarteng


It shivers and shakes
quivers and quakes
squeaking, creaking, shrieking.
It tumbles and rumbles,
albeit mumbles and grumbles
from passengers on thistles and brambles
with whose lives it gambles.
Going on safari,
short cut through an alley –
it takes them on a Dakar Rally.
Driver and mate
are subject to hate;
“We are late!”
is the ubiquitous state.
The mate, short of change
precariously balanced, dangling strange
engages in heated verbal exchange
with tempers rising in range.
At each stop
bodies flip-flop like hip-hop,
weary waiters wallop
to join jiggly jalopy’s lop.
Clothed in pealing paint and rust
seats coated with dust
serrated sills slicing soft skins
ripping clothes off in ribbons.
Clad on its back, spread
‘The Lord is my Shepherd’
or other words of faith to be read
by fellows with little sense in the head.
Prayers silently sail against a breakdown
right in the middle of town,
engaging demons in divine duel
lest there is sudden shortage of fuel.
Clutching valuables from that thief
nearing home, they sigh in relief
intending to make the exit brief,
shout with passion and strong belief
Bus stop!
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