Early, I shuffle into the soul-
less
bus-stop gathering, and am
held upright and inanimate by buggies, walking sticks and re-usable bags made fat with
High Street consumables,
as I make my choice –
Number 48 or Number 548?
Twenty minutes or forty?
Costa coffee won’t wait for a 48.
Hudson’s rosé can make it
down.
Gulped.
Disinfected.
Fizzled.
Giddy, I return –
seek 48.
On the dot, still popping, I pause …
swaying kerb,
thumb out,
tingling …
48?
Copyright owned by Jay Cool
The Silly-Savvy Salopian in Suffolk: read, believe and write ... 