english poetry

嗯.....噢写过一个, 不过是关于等待, 不是等巴士....你看看如何啦...如果可以, 就拿去用吧...你好像很着急....

He Waits

Every morning, he would wait.
He waits at the rusty black gate that no longer looks black.
He always dresses in his clean and neatly polished sneakers,
Freshly washed white collar shirt,
Ironed dark blue uniform pants and jacket,
And wait.

His pale yet shinning hair always combs neatly more to the right side
On top of his fair and smooth face.
His green eyes glitter lights of hope and anxiety,
Embarrassments and shyness,
With self-consciousness, he waits.

He then sees the red motorcycle stops in an air of gray smoke,
Smells of gasoline.
The Dark-haired target jumps off in the same uniform,
Collar shirt,
And sneakers.
He hides himself from him under the halves of his eyelids,
Feels the breeze of wind as he walks pass him
Without moving a glance.

Waiting For A Bus

All by m