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as a 300-ton jet floats
over Crystal Palace
I am flying downhill
with no safety net
on a No.3 bus
clattering past trees
with No.3 haircuts
seconds later we face Brockwell Park
and swerve to avoid its calming turf
while kids in push-chairs
strain to be bus-drivers
at Brixton the bus sucks in
another throng of thrill-seekers
then brushes breakneck bebop
past Max Roach Park
a police siren is robbed
of its Doppler effect
as we bowl along to the Oval
shimmying through
the Kennington Park chicane
typhooning the newly-mown Green
leaving the Dog House panting
laughing at Lollard Street
we hit my home stretch
and I bail out
before the bus bounds off
for the river
leaving the Three Stags standing.
© Paul Taylor 2004
This poem was first published in Smoke #4.
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