Bus Stop

Find me at the bus stop, stood
patiently in line,
tutting a little and
frequently checking the time;
a suitcase - black, blue and frayed - which
I know doesn’t look like much but
the quality’s in how it’s made;
a bespectacled tree in autumn garb -
broad, sturdy, stuck in the mud and
somewhat shy out of the woods;
a dusty book, its spine strengthened,
shelved first-edition,
no longer in print;
a delicate fish, local-caught
and salted, served with
a lemon-basted tongue;
an infinite rope
- slightly kinked -
bound for love and lust and fun;
decamped at the bus stop, watching
buses come, three at a time,
though none are ever mine,
and people jump aboard without even checking,
lured by the lights I reckon, their eyes
on the glories
to be found in fleeting stories
that are never new and
only lead them back
to the back of the queue.
I just sit, not one for fuss;
buy my love forever
just by paying me onto the bus.

by Dan Brown

Other poems of BROWN (351)

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