The Lark
Published in

The Lark

The Bus Stop For Purgatory

Photo by Márcio Iria on Unsplash

Barely awake yet my heart is pumping,
Morning sweat as my feet are thumping,
Galumphing strides carrying me further,
From my bed towards my daily earner,
Attention straying to my wrist,
Is that it coming through the mist?
I can hear it, is it there?
I dodge a driver unaware,
As they back their car into my path,
I don’t appreciate their nervous laugh,
There’s the lampost and the sign,
My heart sinks when I see no line.
Has it gone or am I…

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