In the still of a half-glimpse
Waiting for the number 13.
Coldness multiplying into bone weariness.
Faint darkness of dusk that something lay beyond.
But unable to break out in anything other
Or at best – an incalcitrant trundle.
Forced to be somewhere I did not want to be.
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.