Waiting.

Yesterday I saw my bus pull away.
It drove right past me.
Slow. Deliberate.
The driver tooted his horn.
I raised my hand.
Moving it in the motion of goodbye.
Staring at the faces of my works.
Unfriendly friendlies.
They looked askance.
Mouthing wordless pleas.
I looked away. Buried my hands deep in my pockets. Whistled.
I am waiting.
Waiting for the next bus.
Waiting for my story to come.

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