We stand in stoic silence,
peering through perspex panels
for the bus with our number on it.
All shelters in time are visited
and we, waiting, occupy ourselves
with a thousand tiny distractions
until we see it nose slowly
around the corner, and greet it,
not with welcome surprise
but with wretched relief
and, as we feel the press of coins
in clammy palms, we wonder
whether this is a poem
about buses and bus shelters at all
or, rather, one about life and death
because that’s the kind of thing
that poets write about
and we climb aboard anyway
as it is warm inside
and this one has free wi-fi.
2 thoughts on “Bus Shelter”
Nice. Can you please follow me back for my literature?