I found a ticket in my
coat pocket the other
day. 
It was a bus ticket 
from Manchester. 
I’d paid cash. 
"Piccadilly,
where dreams go to die". 
Lots of things happen there 
some good 
some bad 
all rad? 
My bad 
Hey dad … 
I’ll stop now. 
I don’t exactly miss that bus, 
its shuddering presence, 
the questionably warm back seats of the lower deck. 
They'd always smell like a years-worth of engine fumes,
stored away into the
hard wearing abstract pattern. 
That 
or an ill-kept Henry Hoover, 
which I suppose is a small price to pay for comfort, 
especially when considering the chilly temperatures of Manchester's winter. 
The bus ticket was probably one of 
the last things I bought in that city. 
Although I’ll no doubt buy more in future, 
chugging up and down the surprisingly straight 
Oxford Road,
with it's mixture of grandiose and less-than-grand architecture plotted along
somewhat randomly. 
	Buses are an interesting place, 
Reminds you how slow life can be 
when you’re stuck in a traffic jam with 
everyone. 
All suspended in thought … well 
not all, but most. 
Some would rather shout about it, 
announcing their thoughts out loud 
hoping someone will join in, 
which they seldom do 
if they have any sense. 
Let bygones be bygones. 
and let people who shout on 
buses do their thing. 
Good rules to go by in life. 
Here’s to the next bus journey I inevitably take in Manchester because of an unsurprisingly 'sudden' downpour.