Waiting for buses

I walked in to work today, so walked half way home. Seeing as how it's a Friday night, and cold and raining, I thought I might treat myself to some takeaway dinner from a place near the bus stop. I don't know if I missed my bus while I was in there, but when I came out I then waited half an hour for the next one, at which point two of them came together. Such a situation only calls to mind a certain kind of poetry (no situation is devoid of poetry mind). So, pardon me being crass, but I've been standing in the cold (maybe metaphorically as well as literally also) for too long:

Bloody men are like bloody buses —

You wait for about a year

And as soon as one approaches your stop

Two or three others appear.

You look at them flashing their indicators,

Offering you a ride.

You’re trying to read the destinations,

You haven’t much time to decide.

If you make a mistake, there is no turning back.

Jump off, and you’ll stand there and gaze

While the cars and the taxis and lorries go by

And the minutes, the hours, the days.

Wendy Cope