We dressed hurriedly

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

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Drifted

Stood writing a poem,
I missed my only bus
it was nothing special
in comparison to your
love;

I missed more than my chance
to see you that day;
like the bus in the distance
your love drifted
away.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011 

A Bus Station by any other name

I walk a clear line in the rain
avoiding pensioners full of hesitation;
only for their last gasp
smoke ring remnants
to choke my lungs
yards short of my destination.

Seated; loneliness observed;
the throng of the could care less generation;
the inner circle of popular people
whilst fat girls on the periphery
hunt for scraps of conversation.

My head rolls slow right
I see old people struggling against modernity;
a hundred pack-a-macs and
discount shopping bags
never featured in the pitch
and the power-point presentation;
this flagship Transport Interchange
remains in reality
nothing but a tawdry bus station.

© Copyright D. Archer October 2011