The bus stinks of McDonald's and receipt paper.
A Chinese man has fallen asleep on the phone
and I know precisely how he feels:
conversation can be as wearisome as insomnia.

No joy is found here,
only litter and yesterday's gum.
The poor move along with the poor,
as the rich drive alone.

They sip on coffee through the Newcastle rain
that peppers windows into a multitude
of miniature rainbows. They are driving into
the town,
and they are driving us out of the city.