Bus stations of the cross

Sometimes the humour still pains 
even inside nostalgic wrapping.
There was no psychology back then, 
just looks, no-named neurosis,
no psychological diagnosis bar, 
‘he’s-havin’-a-do-with-his-nerves.’
Some had pissy night terrors, 
others sissy feelings to keep quiet, 
mine – boners! Not alone ones, 
not first up in the morning ones,
Public ones. 
Which all my mates said, 
made you a ‘Right Perv’.

And unfortunate Taylor 
had one in the changing room
the bully choir saw and sang it 
through playgrounds far and wide
theme song, ‘Poor Bonker-Taylor’, 
academically followed him,
not quite to the grave, but cold 
embodied embarrassment did.
May he eventually rest in peace,
(hands fixed crossed over chest),
six feet down there’s no taunting, 
no boners there Bonker-Taylor.

How I hated buses. 
Sitting on the top deck, 
seats reverberating,
Stirring pots of unwanted energies 
on vibrating red-striped cushions.
Armoured by my weighty satchel, 
trying its best to push back fate,
arms holding it lap-atop 
in case it too-mugged 
The Awakened One.
Sly sideways looks, 
forced grins, and 
over-nodded greetings 
to those who sat near, 
assuring all
 – all’s right with the world.

Until ‘fares please’ startled 
the indignity 
of rooting into pockets.
“Think of nuns. Their moustaches. 
Even their ……… urghs!”
It still didn’t go
 – not connected in any way to nuns 
– no, God, no way!

Inside the dark box of sin, 
whispering the shame anatomy brings,
Quieter when saying ‘playing with’, 
even angels couldn’t hear.
He told me it was the devil’s doing
 – ‘do the stations of the cross.’

Imagining: exit bus in tented trousers, 
enter medieval herald trumpet.
Needing an arm to hold on with, 
satchel carry, casual fist in left pocket
–	I was one short. 
Stumbles bring attention. 
Bumping into one in front-Ooh!
Why does it do that? 
Despite all my prayers 
(not Hail Marys though).
This Asmodeus of volcanic willfulness, 
gleefully ruling my never-regions.
‘Bloody buses, buzzing bonking boners, 
.... bleedin’ bastard buggers!’

A forlorn Catholic kid 
sits atop a Double Decker 
– Station Terminal.
His exit – four stops back. 
‘End of the line’, 
a true cry from below.
Stopped, he can start. 
Looking down for evidence, 
he stands – normal!
Not risking a ride back despite rain, 
wearying at the thought of return,
he trudges along, 
rehearsing lines
in case there’s nosy Bus-Inquisitors.

‘Yeh, guardian angels help. 
Sure!’ Pause. ‘Bet wings hide theirs!’

‘Yeh!’