Saturday Night

Its dark and damp. Earlier in the day there had been two rainbows. I sit on the bottom deck of a 341 trundling along Philip Lane towards home. Through the rain spattered windows, passing a parade of shop windows, I notice other people doing nothing special, like me. A man sweeps the launderette before closing up. A boy with a big afro hangs in his dorway talking to a friend. A girl orders fried chicken in the chicken shop. She holds her money against the counter, and turns to watch the bus go by as her server dishes up. Two doors down a man sits in a forlorn burger joint on a plastic seat that is fixed to its table, as he waits for his burger to be cooked. Yellow light from these windows seeps into the wet street. And then we turn down Black Boy Lane away from any signs of life, past house fronts with net curtains, closed off to prying eyes, past the park (really dark) with its huge shadowy trees all along the edge.