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  You are @ HomeAdults Poetry


Source: Adults

Author: Rhona Aitken

Title: Number 40 - every half hour

A winter wind bites deep;

red noses, cheeks abound,

fingers cold, clutching fluffy scarves

held tightly under chins.

Air is roused to greater spin

as a bus skims the curb,

hinged doors wheezing open

to an out-pouring

of prams and people

Our frozen toes must wait, it seems,

till half-past three.

Shopping bags sag on aching arms,

backs bend against their weight.

|What weighs so much today?

The milk? The butter?

Or perhaps the chops?

No - not the tea -

that’s light on arms, high on comfort.

Oranges? Bananas?

Heavy alas - but not as bad

as washing powder - or meusli.

Here comes our No 40 bus.

My ticket from my pocket -

Finding it - showing it,

sitting down and easing arms.

I’m nearly home - its warm in here,

my bus has sudden charms!

I ring the bell, survive the jolt.

Alighting , laden, almost there -

My bus has brought me home.

The shopping sits upon the table.

The tea steams gently in its pot,

winter safely outside .

I owe No 40 quite a lot.

Published on writebuzz®: Adults > Poetry

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