The bus lurches and an old woman
falls into the aisle. People’s faces mimic
out-rushing tides as they help
her back to her seat. She turns
her eyes to her elbow, and a
hole, the size of a twenty-cent coin.
Next to her the man glances
back out the window. There is
no blood. Just more beige.
A piece of skin has chipped out
like flesh is fake, like plaster that falls
from a wall; a piece of skin
lies somewhere
under a seat or
in the aisle
in the sun
on the bus
on Crown and
turning into Oxford Street,
Darlinghurst.
