My phone rings while I wait for the bus at the interchange and it is Joe H and he reads out a poem he has written, but I can't hear all of the words because the bus-stop is frantic and noisy. The loudest people seem to be those consumed by lust, pressing themselves against someone else who is also waiting, either to get the bus or simply for the other person to leave, and they are unaware of anyone but each other.
The bus arrives just as the poem nears the end, so I cram myself on and hold on tightly. On the walk home, a squirrel crosses my path and the sky is dark and clouded. I see a mirror speckled with rain drops and it is then that I remember seeing golden-coloured puddles the other day, I suppose reflecting the sunset.
The bus arrives just as the poem nears the end, so I cram myself on and hold on tightly. On the walk home, a squirrel crosses my path and the sky is dark and clouded. I see a mirror speckled with rain drops and it is then that I remember seeing golden-coloured puddles the other day, I suppose reflecting the sunset.
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