The bus stop blues. The leaves on the trees that end up in my pocket. Will use them as bookmarks. Should’ve worn a scarf because the chill wind keeps creeping under my collar and freezing me. It grabs my balls and turns them into tiny marbles, or those stones you get on false beaches that kids put in their pockets without their parents knowing. I’ve no idea what I’m rambling about. Well, I do, but whatever. Removing my hands from my trousers, I stare at the end of the street but no bus. Fetching some tobacco from my man bag, I roll a cigarette but my fingers are so cold it takes an age and most of it drops to the floor. When it finally comes together, I strike a match with my back turned against the wind and suck down the smoke. It’s a blue sky but still no bus. It’s no time at all, and yet things pass me by. Life and lovers. The world at arm’s reach. More smoke in my lungs. More leaves in my pockets. If only I could openly masturbate, or fetch a bottle of wine from the shop across the road and tuck in without shame, but alas I’m not famous, and so such behaviour would be deemed inappropriate. Instead, I sit down on a bench that freezes my arse and proceed to look at your photos on Instagram. I go right back to the beginning, and step by step I observe you on your journey through time and space. Does this make me weird or thoughtful? Does my wry smile make me passionate or perverted? All of them. Yeah, it’s all of them. Still no bus. Still the stillness of some other Thursday like so many others. You know, I was born on a Thursday. Did you know that? Way back in ’84 it was. And now here I am, waiting for the number 24 while fiddling with a pocketful of dead leaves eyeing you up like the mischievous loser I am. Traffic comes and goes, as do those that pass by on foot. And yet still no fucking bus, just the smoke escaping my lips and the obsessions you stir within me that spin in my mind like children high on sugar and life while deliriously singing Ring a Ring o’ Roses, over and over again.