The bus waits (a poem)

At open mic last night, one of the participants prefaced her two songs by saying that she felt like crap and was running the risk of having to barf mid-song. This poem has nothing to with that, except she was sitting in the seat in front of me, frequently running her hands through her hair.

She looks out the window
as she runs her hands through her hair…

A melancholy song
plays in the café
for the evening crowd

Fans at every door
provide relief from the heat
but not enough

Condensation drops from the cup
ice clinks as it melts and shifts
drowned out by conversation

With a huff and a belch of black exhaust
the bus pulls away
headed for its next stop

She looks out the window
as she runs her hand through her hair…

(24 August 2016—posted August 25th)

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