Existential bus stop

I stand in justified inaction

watching sunshine dapple pavement

where I am not.  I do not move.

Because I think I have a place

within a strange, unstructured queue

of calculating travellers who wait

within their squares of pavement

for an absent but anticipated bus.

Like chess pieces we have our moves,

ready to gain an opening door.

There are no shelter seats.  We stand.

And long before we castle

check or mate, discomfort starts.

Where does the pain begin?

Foot, instep, ankle, back,

calf, knee, or neck, or thigh?

I lean against a breeze-block post

and study drawings chiaroscuroed

by the dirt in cracks of rough cement.

And note the subtleties of green

in fleshy-leaf obtrusiveness

which spurns the winter’s scythe.

And where’s the bloody bus?

Each twenty minutes it says there.

And if I missed the last

the next should have been here by now!

But busses, just like cats, are well aware

of those who hate, and they

demand a price. 

            Each corner-hidden

engine sounds just like a bus

until it’s just another car.

Until it’s not. 

At last. 

And then

we’ll have what we’ve

been waiting for –

an opportunity

to journey on
to join another queue.