1969, the dregs of winter, London, Ontario:
I’m standing shivering, waiting, interminably
for a bus that refuses to come,
waiting, absurdly, numbly,
to be taken somewhere I don’t want to be.
This time it’s a French tutorial,
tomorrow it could be the library, a part-time job, an errand,
just somewhere else I will dread being
something else I will force myself to do.
The snow comes down finely
the grayness of the season permeating everything.
The world seems devoid of possibility, life, hope.
Are there people, somewhere, happy?
Do they look forward?
I see the bus finally lumbering down the street toward me,
my cue to start my walk back home
to my quiet room and bed.
It seems I am powerless to resist
the lure of the dark and quiet
that await me,
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