Bus Stop

In the still of a half-glimpse
Waiting for the number 13.
Entrenched piercing
Coldness multiplying into bone weariness.

Faint darkness of dusk that something lay beyond.
Fizzing up.
But unable to break out in anything other
than anger.
Or at best – an incalcitrant trundle.

Forced to be somewhere I did not want to be.
And frustration.
Frustration that the words, the storyful purpose that wanted to pour out – was locked deep.
I obviously needed something – or somebody – else to think about.

Again tantalizing night-air nipped.
Could something happen?
The bus was yet to arrive.


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