Street pastor Polly

guides a wobbling passenger

onto his bus.

The girl fumbles for her purse

which will not be found.

And he frowns -

He has a daughter that age.

Polly takes the fare

from the plastic bag of donations

given by the respectable concerned.

The girl is crying.

Somehow she found a seat.

He sees her weeping in his mirror.

Into first gear, then second, the bus moves,

there is a timetable to keep.

He cannot go back

and put an arm round her.

He cannot go back

and ask her what's wrong.

Suddenly the girl throws up.

Oh fuck, he says.

But his tender feelings remain.

The lights change from green to orange

while he ponders

alpha male or Saint Francis?

Can anyone help her, he yells.

Glazed eyes.

The eyes of sleepy frogs.

Come on someone,

she's in trouble.

No one moves.

In the dark, the bus moves.

The driver's lips move

silently.

Nothing else moves.