So the bus came.
I was waiting for her.On the opposite side. In a different corner.Not knowing where she would be. Not knowing when she would be. The night breathed of pastel and grime.
The wilting seconds were at a bar. Waiting for their drink.
And the bus left.
And another one.
And another.
A row of them.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
And in that mesh of moving cages, the wind sent pictures of her, frozen between the frames of numbers and round lights, as she walked under the sodium vapours.
The smoke settled down on the paved nothingness.
My radium struck for bed.
Post Script : Many years ago, I had read a little poem which described beyond par the seeing off between two lovers on a railway platform. This piece is an ode to the poet.
I was waiting for her.On the opposite side. In a different corner.Not knowing where she would be. Not knowing when she would be. The night breathed of pastel and grime.
The wilting seconds were at a bar. Waiting for their drink.
And the bus left.
And another one.
And another.
A row of them.
Five.
Six.
Seven.
Eight.
And in that mesh of moving cages, the wind sent pictures of her, frozen between the frames of numbers and round lights, as she walked under the sodium vapours.
The smoke settled down on the paved nothingness.
My radium struck for bed.
Post Script : Many years ago, I had read a little poem which described beyond par the seeing off between two lovers on a railway platform. This piece is an ode to the poet.
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