Waiting for a bus to come

Photo: Charles Collins, 2015
At Stewart Dawson’s corner
was where I saw you, seated
all orange high-viz suiting, looking
tired and holding a sandwich

Like me, you look too old to still
be working. I can see the weariness
yet, I still have a spring in my step
at least that’s what I tell myself

Did I once kiss you at the cabaret?
down the lane by the old post office
Manners Street.  Was it the Sheridan?
Maybe you remember, maybe not.

You are a stranger in a high-viz suit
sitting on the pavement outside
what was once a flash jewellery shop
And who knows maybe we did once

Dance together at the cabaret back
in the day, when we Catholic girls
were cock teasers full of false promise
testing our allure against your erections

Then moving on to the next dance
partner with whom we might exchange
chaste kisses several if you please
flighty bright young things, even demure

At times not knowing what we would do
If the music stopped and there was just
you or some other bloke or someone new
who was prepared to… well, chance his arm

So it’s unlikely, but not impossible
we kissed one night at the cabaret
You look tired there on the pavement
as if waiting for a new song
I’m waiting for my bus to come

6 thoughts on “Waiting for a bus to come

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