The W3 Stop

Six minutes the ticker time says, six minutes. That's not too bad I think. But I'm still pissed off. As I rounded the corner to the bus stop, a big red number swanned dreamily by; Goodbye vanderput! it seemed to sing as it flew along, trailing a further delay to my journey. This is what I hate about buses, you have no control. Unlike a timetabled train, the moment I leave my house bears no relation to my wait for the bus. It's a punctuality lottery, a bus automatically places a twenty minute window of unpredictability in your schedule; it could be instant, it could be a while. Anyway, this time, it'll only be another six minutes. I read my book and space out. After a while, I think, hmm, its been a while. I look at the time, still six minutes. I wait and look and look and wait, still six minutes. The longer I wait, the less it changes. Six minutes. Six Minutes. SIX MINUTES! The time is over, there is no more time! The guy next is equally unimpressed. He empties his mouth on the street, repeatedly. Spit spit spit. Small pools of foamy white saliva are lain at his feet. See, that's what happens when buses run late, the place falls apart.