Waiting

The stop is quiet, eerie,
haunted by cars that drift listlessly
under dim street lights.
The bus seems years away
at the corner
traffic lights holding it for inspection,
dousing it in questions
red green and amber
as I rub my shoulders self consciously.
My eyes and bones are weary,
my legs lead and jelly
all at once,
a yawn
stretching my faded lips
in silent O
up my face.
I yawn again before my mouth closes
making room for my eyes to open
and my tongue to taste
the fog of sleep
at the back of my throat.
The bus opens its doors.
I pause
the moment echoing before me.
I climb aboard.

 

© Hayley New 2016

 

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