Day Twenty: Untitled
Posted by missed on June 28, 2008
She watches him at the bus stop,
And he doesn’t know her name.
She smiles at him when he looks past her,
And hates herself for trying.
These moments, they won’t stop passing,
Like the busses, day after day.
A player in the oldest story, she
Wishes the bus would take her
Where she really wanted to go:
Across the uncharted seas between
What we are, and what we do.
———————————————-
We aren’t what we pretend to be until we stop pretending.
I missed the post yesterday, that’s two for thirty, but I’m still doing thirty over all. I know it’s a bit of a cheat, but, eh, so sue me.
In other news, I sent off my first story a few days ago. I’ll expect the rejection letter in a couple of weeks.
Roux said
That reminds me a lot about the following poem, by Wendy Cope:
Bloody men
bloody men are like bloody buses
you wait for about a year
and as soon as one approaches your stop
two or three others appear.
you look at them flashing their indicators,
offering you a ride.
you’re trying to read the destinations,
you haven’t much time to decide.
if you make a mistake, there is no turning back.
jump off, and you’ll stand there and gaze
while the cars and the taxis and lorries go by
and the minutes, the hours, the days.
***
Anyway, good luck with the story.