Catching Butterflies on a Bus
By Oisin Harris
On a bus a man grips the handrail so tightly he misses his stop.
I stand behind him watching the rain.
His shoulders sashay like ears of wheat caressed by wind.
My thoughts vanish into his shirt’s white collar,
Crashing against his dark navy suit like tides embracing at sea.
His profile in the bus window whispers of
Sky cordoned off like tremors in distant panic rooms,
Or like the hidden depths of an old well
In the corner of a farm sold off years ago.
I wonder if he dreams of the things the night brings.
He’s remembering spring days and the beating of bird wings.
I feel I am trespassing on the loneliness of this man
Who speaks the language
Of mounted butterflies haunting invisible flowers.
I can almost sense his thoughts trailing off
Like the wake of a ship slinking in the sea.
For some people
Life is a middle name.
He’s clinging on to the handrail as if it held in it his entire life’s savings.
His free hand writes missives to the rain in Braille.
He reminds me of Orpheus, scanning these streets like darkrooms
For memories in buildings nobody knew existed.
He opens his wallet and a woman’s photo passes my eyes.
He looks right through her
To afternoons strolling tree lined promenades.
This man on this bus
Stands so closely out of my reach.
His back is a postcard.
I can smell the flowers he held
When butterflies would dance about her head.
Based in Canterbury (UK), Oisin Harris attempts poems after having earned an English degree from Sussex University. Oisin has an MA in Publishing and is a librarian at the University of Kent and part of the unofficial shadow judging panel for this year’s Booker International. His work has appeared in The Moth Magazine, Ariadne’s Thread, The Best Book in the Uni Verse (Peoplepower Publications) and Sussex’s The Badger. He has performed his poems at open mics throughout Kent and published a contributing chapter for a book on women and translation.