The bus is late Of course it is

The bus is late. Of course it is.

I lean against the pole, a chill

goes right through my thin coat, it does.

This metal thing, so stark and still.

My sleeve pulled back, the cold gets in,

a tiny shock, a little pin

prick of discomfort. Then I see

my face, all squashed, reflected back at me.

It's chrome, you know. Like a warped glass.

My mouth a line, a grey sky pass

es through my cheek, a streaky smear.

I look like I could shed a tear,

or laugh, perhaps, a broken sound.

My nose is flat, my eyes are round

and bulging, like some startled fish.

This ugly mirror, my sole wish

is for the bus. To move away.

From this cold metal, this harsh day,

this twisted, almost-me, I find.

A stranger's face, I left behind.