Early, I shuffle into the soul-
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
Giddy, I return –
seek 48.

On the dot, still popping, I pause …
swaying kerb,
thumb out,
tingling …

Copyright owned by Jay Cool


Published by The Silly-Savvy Salopian

Freelance writer and descendant of the cave dweller and outlaw, Humphrey Kynaston. Banished from Shropshire for my eccentricity, I have made my home in Suffolk. I write poetry, short stories, travel journals, comedy gig reviews and non-fiction articles. My wish is to write my way back into the heart of my birth land. All writing commissions (and free holidays in Shropshire!) considered.

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