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

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