The bus stop
In the bus station, mid day, she is reading a small book filled with small lines of what must be poetry. Now and then, she’s taking a smoke from her cigarette, covering in fog the butterflies and flowers that seem to float around her silent universe, like an aura. The guy near her is bathing in the sun with his eyes closed, allowing himself to confortably sweat at what must be 40 degrees temperature. That’s what they announced at the radio for today’s weather forecast.
I wish we had swings that make music, like they do in Montreal….