The cars don’t pause for the naked people at the bus-stop
but I cross the road to purposely walk through them
and halt, unable to resist, as if waiting for a bus
and eye up the bouncing breasts and surprisingly unhardened willies.
They glare back, whispering to each other,
and a teenager crouched on the shelter spits at my feet.
Unable to move on without giving myself away
my body hangs awkwardly as I keep my eyes on the ground.
A bus comes. The doors open. No one else moves
but I step forward keeping up the pretence
and find myself facing the driver fumbling for change.
I sit upstairs, watching the naked people as the bus leaves.
None of the other passengers seem to think this odd
like they’ve seen it before a dozen times.
At the next stop it’s the same: the shelter surrounded
by nudists; in, around and on top, none waiting
for the bus. And the next stop is the same.
I wonder if it’s some kind of protest
but conclude it’s probably an art exhibition.
I see some cameras but only from tourists
and people in high buildings.
A guy behind me gets a photo.
That’s the 14th, he tells me.
I wonder what I’ve been doing with my life.
At the next stop I get off
and storm into the centre of the naked group
and strip off my clothes. The others applaud.
And I realize, as I’m gawped at, the point of it all.
