We dressed hurriedly,
routine fashioned by weekly practice
and soon step glove handed
into the star-less, car-less night air.
We knew what time to chance,
to cut as fine as we dare,
the down hill risk for your last bus.
Many would pass, all noise and diesel,
we watched cold travelling silhouettes fleet by
standing hands in opposite pockets
both for romance and for heat.
From the corner your bus looms large
the diesel and noise subside,
air brakes interrupt our last kiss,
grim faced passengers silently curse the delay
as if buses were private.
I glance at the back of the bus as its gears whine
and run back to the top of the hill, to my house
where the scent of you will linger on the bedclothes
long after you are home.
Copyright D. Archer October 2011