As a grown-up big-girl,
I sit two rows ahead of you.
In a little sea of gaudy seats
on a bus, all orange and blue,
I see you as a passing boat.
You're dressed up prettily
in white, like billowing sails,
as you wave to me so giddily.
You bob and duck in undulations,
peering at me between seats,
looking at the big-girl in front
as we journey down grey streets.
You sway in a happy breeze,
and I've caught a rippling smile
from the little-girl who beams
at me just down the bus' aisle.
I'll stick my tongue out like so,
and watch as a quaking giggle soars
through tiny body vessel, until you
beat baby fists like crashing oars.
You sparked a fire in the safe tower
in which I locked a melancholy mind,
but little boats swim from light-houses
lest they beach themselves, and find
nothing more to see of the world.
My little-girl boat, across the ocean
on a bus - with so many more harbours
to visit you cannot show devotion
to one big-girl island a few rows ahead.
I am moored, and I am docked,
I ooze salt water to sweet passing ships.
I am alone, and to the dry sands locked.