My bus driver is a pirate
His gold earrings, no doubt the loot
gathered raiding a Spanish galleon
A bushy mass of black hair engulfs his
chin,
flows down his chest.
His head a shining dome
not unlike
the sacred Muslim rock
He holds the wheel with muscled forearms
spread by the width of
massive shoulders
just as he would
a ships wheel
in a howling gale
From port to starboard
he barrels down Kent Terrace
I see him
aboard a heaving ship
feet planted firmly
legs bent
ploughing through enormous waves
When he checks passengers
in the mirror
I notice the eye creases
carved out by
gazing toward the horizon
across vast oceans
and seven seas
But all these things may have passed my
notice
were it not for the gleam in his dark
flashing eyes
when I presented a gold doubloon.
They glittered
and I’m sure I heard him whisper:
“Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum
Avast me hearties and shiver me timbers!
To Kilbirnie we shall go,
or I’m not Long John Silver”
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