I Hate The Bus System
My ode to the hours wasted waiting for buses here in Portland.
I’ve always hated the bus stops.
The early day, I rush to get ready,
feeling the deadline hanging over head.
I escape my home into the heat and walk
the six minutes to the bench.
the searing warmth affects me more so now that my sweat begins.
My pores are strained and heavy from the moisture.
I chose a sweater out of haste.
If available, I’ll sit beneath the cover to seek shade.
but in reality it only traps the heat
creating a sauna with a locked door.
Occasionally there will be others there.
and from afar they seem like company,
but sunglasses cover the soul and arms crossed to cover their heart.
No conversation is exchanged, no glances made.
you and he, and she, have only one thing in common.
and wish not to discuss it.
At the end of my day I am forced to wait again.
But this time I miss the heat.
The sun has slunk away and I’m greeted by the evening sky.
It grew darker each moment,
and because of it the air grew cold.
The wind would scratch my skin and make my pores stand on end.
I’d wish i was sweating again,
but every now and again I’d remember
that the next day, I’d miss the night.
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