Oh, darling, it always is—
a silver ghost in the drizzle,
crawling like regret through traffic,
while your shoes soak and your phone dies.
It’ll arrive just as you give up,
doors hissing open like a sigh,
driver’s face blank as yesterday’s forecast.
Still, you climb in—
because hope, that stubborn thing,
prefers wet seats and bad timing
over walking home alone.
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Author:
ROSHI (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: March 18th, 2026 07:00
- Comment from author about the poem: I take public transportation most days and she is usually late
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 19
Offline)
Comments2
This I take for a rewrite William since I remember it well or maybe its just a bad case of deja vu but it seems to read smoother this time
It's like Waiting for Godot.
I know what you mean.
lol…
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