On the No.62 bus to Hope Street, upstairs with my Da.
Him in the coat that went on the bed on cold nights.
Through a wee hand-wiped porthole we would see
the fading names atop the tell-tale tenements.
Moses McCulloch, Iron Founder, Gallowgate,
AA Massey & Sons, Purveyors and Provisions,
Aaron Goldberg & Sons, Warehousemen.
Cha Papa’s chip shop opposite the pend.
Ornate or not, he knew them all and would tell a tale
of tobacco barons, merchants and the Trongate gaol.
Past the Mercat Cross where men were hanged,
and now the Krazy Discount Warehouse stands.
All the time his arm across the back of the seat
with me by the window, almost cuddled.
Upstairs-on-the-bus blue fug adds to the smell of his coat. ...
a mixture of Woodbine, welding, burnt oil and pubs.
If it could be bottled now I would buy it for a sleeping draught.