Bus Change

There’s comfort in knowing
that I know your words.
And I do hear you from
time to time but
now, now your voice is often
coming through my own
I suppose that’s what happens
when it’s been a little
I’ll go the
rest of my hopefully
longish or long
enough life
reciting your
gems and boasting your
wisdoms and
I’ll sound just like the others that
ramble on about someone
no one else
I can’t amble with those others
who lie to save my youth
when you talked the truth at
me. Whether I wanted it or
The chats about the days and the ways
that the days
don’t mean much
when you’re old.
Your walls were
worlds where
shame fell like
biscuit crumbs.
I miss the bus change
and Tesco shops.

Published by R.T

Brit born and Canada bound, I run On Tuesdays, my poetry blog where I write weekly(ish) poems.

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