Night Whistle at the Shelter

The pavement chill grew sharp as streetlights hummed awake, so I marched with steady cadence toward the glass bus shelter. Underneath the painted metal bench, the concrete floor was bone-dry and sheltered from the breeze. A yellow paper bus ticket lay flat near an empty metal beverage can. I approached with firm, deliberate paces. Using the bridge of my snout, I nudged the heavy aluminium cylinder until it rolled square against the shelter’s glass panel, anchoring the fluttering yellow ticket underneath its rim. With the away ground surveyed and the post secured, Boycie FC claims full-time.