I can’t sit still
on the bus today.

I’m looking down and
from side to side.

I make circle around my left thigh with my hands
like I’m trying to tie a rope around it:
a portable measuring tape.

I tighten the noose. I try not to
groan. I dig my nails
right in. I’m wondering why
I take up so much space.

I loosen my grip and
put my feet up on the chair in front of me
and check my knees are looking sufficiently
knobbly today. I’m wondering why
I take up so much space.

The sweaty, red-faced punter
who got on at Busby and sat down next to me
smells like all the things I hate about Glasgow:
cheap *****, stale cigars and
a sausage supper. Greasy chips drowning in vinegar, choking
on salt.

In the space between us
he shoves his rucksack.
When I feel it against my leg I
flinch. Another sensation connecting me to
this world.
I slide to the right, apologising to Mr. Greasy Chips like
I’ve done something terribly wrong and I
just don’t want to feel—
I don’t want to feel the fabric touching my body.

I’m wondering why
I take up so much space.
If I were smaller, just a bit smaller
there would be enough room
for his ******* bag.

I can’t sit still
on the bus today.
I’m coughing because of the stale cigar smoke and
some guy’s cheap aftershave
and I’m wondering why
I
take up
so
much space.