Poetry

The choir at the bus stop –
Sopranos of crotchety old women
And baritones of prickly old men –
Is getting ready for work again.
After years of practice
They have perfected scowls;
Complaining about the weather,
Complaining about their bowels,
And smelling like packed anchovies,
Like dank socks,
And sweaty cheese.
It’s the rain, they say,
That makes them feel this way.
Good weather for ducks.
And so, a raft of quacks
They have become,
With honks and barks,
And hoots and hisses
And croaks and grunts,
Singing their complaints
Of today’s service.