And ends of fags,
A dirty looking floor,
Broken automatic door,
Bus station has them all.
Stuck here, clock watching
And a bit of people watching.
Other people's thumbs
Pounding like drums
On their phone's screen.
Still waiting for the bus,
Suddenly a fuss.
Someone's fallen down!
I eye the floor - it's brown
And coated in reflective guilt.
"I am what I am" myself
Tells myself.
"Yeah but you hate me",
You tells me.
I guess I'm right.
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