the bus lurches

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,