A bearded man sits
by me on the bench
in the bus station.
His nails are broken, dirty.
His trainers have holes in the toes.
Want a Pringle?
He conjures a red tube from his khaki coat.
I edge away,
focus on the backpack by my feet
stuffed with clothes, bread rolls.
I couldn’t carry much –
hadn’t much to take anyway.
What the hell happened to your face?
The man squints, crunches on the Pringles,
slides towards me.
There are crumbs on his coat,
in his beard.
Looks like someone got you good.
I turn away
hoping
he’ll think I don’t understand,
mistake me for a foreigner.
And I feel it today,
an alien far from home already,
the world all noise and nonsense.
A bus pulls up. I hand the driver my ticket,
a yellow square to Elsewhere
paid for with Dad’s contactless card.
Runaway.
Liar.
Thief.
In a seat near the back
I press my forehead against the
cold, sweating window.
I am heading west –
to Kelly-Anne,
who never wanted to go –
never wanted to go without me anyway.
The bus revs and judders.
I am leaving.