How I curse you, L2, most capricious of busses,
you of the infrequent stops and skipped promises.
I despair of reading yet another 9x line marquee
still each time my pulse quickens in my hope
to read your name writ bold atop your broad face.
Bah, you have dashed my hopes!
Twice, you have dashed my hopes
and I look to my feet
like a scorned suitor, his rival
escorting his love through the dance floor.
Then, like the sun cresting the hills at dawn,
you appear, come rumbling past the post office into sight.
I am saved, dear diesel-scented mistress of my desire!