f.m.l.


My mint tea is prepared
with tepid water.
Oops.
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,
cheerful.
The numbers are small:
six-four-o-six
damn.

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:
elsewhere.
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

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