The half rusted blue bus stop seat isn´t great.
The curvature of the see through roof.
The waiting, the edging and sudden nudge of the other waiters.
Trying to get a piece of that blue rust for their bum.
As each bus passes, you tense ready to stand and approach.
Until your true bus comes.
The cold morning saw you frown, as I did.
I don´t know if it was pride, but I think.
That´s the reason you didn´t ask me for a lift.
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