The Wait in York

I waited for my bus

missed it once by accident 

missed it again when it never came

and watched the night fold itself

around the empty street

A man in tattered clothes

sat on the bench,

his few belongings draped around his neck,

He waited for sleep

I waited for my journey

The night curled around us

he pulled a white sheet over himself,

A ghost drifting between reality and dreaming

Passersby laughed,

some peering if someone was truly there

In front of Sainsbury's

doors locked, 

windows dark,

a night guard patrolled,

making rounds again and again.

While the ghost slept on

Besides me,

a woman stood,

walking stick in hand,

two fabric bags of groceries at her feet.

Wind cut through the night,

yet she endured,

Then an elderly lady sat beside me,

a Glaswegian,

unfazed by the late hour.

She cared for herself,

curious about a passing ad on sickle cell.

We spoke a little of life

and parted with quiet warmth.

Wandering scenes from the Dharma Bums,

flickering in my mind

the waiting, the wandering,

the small human dramas of night

yet here I was,

living my own quiet pilgrimage

As the cold wind swept the city.

I kicked myself,

wondering to have paid extra

for the train

cursing my decision to wait for the midnight bus

Another hour passed,

teenagers hurried,

luggage rattled,

cab drivers idled,

passengers drifting to their destinations.

The cold deepened.

The city whispered,

teasing me with missed buses,

testing patience,

strangers’ warmth brushing against mine,

Making my slow, steady way

toward London