bus filled with Sunday people. With
the conductor too effete to
tell him off, the smoke stirs livid
looks. He swears in the language of
a faraway father, feeling
hot and frustrated with someone’s
pretty wife just in front. Looking
at the scenery through the stained
window, he gulps some local rum,
his Rasta headband swaying to
every whim of the tired driver.
Drunk, he soon falls asleep after
a few drags on the bent cig that
drops from his old, wrinkled fingers.
After being mocked by well-dressed
passengers, he wakes up to have
a few more puffs, starting to swear
again (this time in his mother
tongue). He looks wildly for the cig
that has wandered into someone
else’s territory. He then
worsens the situation by
releasing from his shirt pocket
stolen coins, with them scattering
everywhere like the rapid shells
of paralysed tortoises. Shamed,
he sits erect, and smiles at the
Sunday people—very kindly.
About Amit Parmessur:
Born in Mauritius, Amit Parmessur is a poet and teacher. His writing has appeared in over 160 magazines, namely Galaktika Poetike, WINK, The Rye Whiskey Review, Night Garden Journal, Ann Arbor Review and Ethos Literary Journal. He loves to pick off past experiences and turn them over in the light. A one-time Pushcart and two-time Best of the Web nominee, he nowadays edits The Pangolin Review.
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