A poem a day: At the Pay Station

Off prompt but using yesterday’s sonnet prompt (happy belated birthday, Will). Trying to bring in a mundane, everyday situation and turn this into a poem…

Pay station
Pay Station: Rochdale Exchange, April 2016.

At the Pay Station

It doesn’t matter here how long you stay –

fistfuls of loose change thrown at black plastic –

you know the number of the parking bay,

which rectangle.  Car away from traffic,

the congestion up St Mary’s Gate. As

you tap a wall with the tip of your shoe,

kick faux marble. Then, check Facebook status

of the friend who was supposed to meet you

in Costa for a brew.  You’re so alone,

wonder why you even bothered to come

anyway to the Exchange. Check your phone

again, swipe the glass to update; they’ve gone

and didn’t let you know. What a damned waste

of time, what a waste of life in this place.

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