It’s the wait on
the station
killing time as
Indeed
time’s killing me,
slowly
I am inexorably drawn
like a moth to a flame
by the stations
that make me
wait over and over
again.
Obsessive compulsive
and that might be so,
I still go though.
Catch me on time lapse
as I collapse.
Life is the camera,
the action, a panacea
for the sick.
I never run for the train
it never comes anyway
I wait
and I wait and
this is my life in
a nutshell
cooked up every day.
colours too
wading through this
cross spectrum
at a loss leading section
in
a pound shop near to you,
but
it all sounds phony,
if only I knew.
And I’m back to the question,
what am I doing?
waiting,
that’s what I do
every corner I turn
something new and
if not new
then
hardly used.
That’s a short skirt
I blurt out
then get out
at the next stop,
a nonevent
never realised
I had spoken aloud.
and I’m here again
waiting
at the station
with a face on,
It’s going to be a bloody
long day.
© 2017, John Smallshaw.
