A blessed pilgrimage
with a hint of purpose;
The glory of the moon
still hanging;
Footpaths
wet with drizzle;
People sniffling,
gambling on a bus that may not come;
Streetlights fade,
worms start to worry;
But the barista is already there,
running through their own ritual.
Inspired by the first couple of lines from this totally unconnected Substack post by Joe Nichols (but it is a fun read on a different topic).
1994ever 