My mint tea is prepared
with tepid water.
With the lukewarm dregs
of bottle water
this time.

I cannot find the stop
on Carling and –
I forget.
A man waves me over,
“You look lost.”
I am.

The bus stop is in front
of a funeral home,
The numbers are small:

There are people waiting
across the street so
I J-walk.
“Does this bus go to Lincoln?”
She points behind me.
“That one”.

We churn around the Fields
down the hill, back,
no stops.
Consulting the coloured lines
I see the “96” pull up,
oh hell.

This beast coasts to a halt
but not at my home:
Back to the scribbly lines
but I forgot to get
a transfer.

Three twenty-five poorer
and I can finally
go home.
My numb fingers fish in
my pockets but…
no key.

© christine DINGLEY 2011

Enhanced by Zemanta

3 thoughts on “f.m.l.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s