Sitting in the bus stop
on the road, by our lane.
I don’t think it’ll stop though
– the bus that is, not the rain.
It didn’t stop and neither did I,
thinking of you that is,
while the bus hurtled by,
in the never ending rain.
So I sit here drenched through,
watching the bus fade away,
my mind filled with you
– my pocket filled with change.
The closeness makes me think
of the times on buses past
– you be-jumper’d (pink),
reflections in grimy window glass.