David Fewster

HOW I FEEL IF I HAVE TO RUN FOR A BUS,

EVEN, LIKE, IF IT'S ONLY 20 YARDS...

(by Davy Fewster, aged 67)

Like fucking Dr. Zhivago. You know at the end of the picture,

where Omar Sharif has a lot of white flour

in his hair and mustache because he's supposed to be

all old and shit. And you can tell he's old,

because he's all winded and clutching his ticker

as he lurched on the inter-urban trolley,

like he might croak right there.

Because Omar Sharif is a fucking great actor.

You can almost see him thinking, "Look at me,

running for a trolley like a putz, me, who used to travel

by carriage or hansom or whatever the hell they were called

to exquisite tea parties hosted by aristocratic women

with beautiful copper samovars."

I know that look, because it is MY OWN STORY.

And only Omar could have expressed it so well.

Except that, unlike Omar, although I jump on the bus

gasping for breath with a dangerously increased heartbeat

and wondering if this is how it feels right before a stroke,

I also worry if I went to the bathroom soon enough

before I boarded, because my prostate and bladder are also shot.

I saw no sign of this affliction on Omar's face.

But that's OK, because this is how it ends for great poets,

like me & Mayakovsky & Boris Pasternak & Omar Sharif.

And if I happen to catch a glimpse of HER

(or Lara or Julie Christie or the lost love of my life

who permeates my dreams with ineffable sadness

yet I still wish I would never wake)

out the window, will I have the strength to pull the cord

at the next stop and dash backwards to throw myself

at her feet one last time before my final collapse...

or would I say, "Uh-oh, if I get off now

my transfer will expire..."