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Waiting at the Bus Stop
Member rating: No Rating | Words: | Submitted: Wed Jun 15 2005
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Waiting at the Bus Stop The 161 was always late. As I waited, I reminisced back to the many journeys I had made on that bus, glancing around to the familiar surroundings that I almost considered my second home. I looked fondly at the grey pavement with cracks the council had promised to fix many a time but, unsurprisingly, had never done so. I surveyed the black chewing gum dotted around everywhere that looked slightly like a piece of life-size abstract art that belonged in the Tate Modern; I wondered what it would symbolize. I felt the cold, hard plastic seats beneath me; saw the deteriorating council and their unkempt gardens; heard the heavy drone of cars on the nearby dual carriageway; smelt the pungent scent of urine left as debris of an over-indulgent night out. The gentle autumn breeze lifted the leaves-all shaded different hues of red and gold-into a...
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