The Number 1 Poem by maria goodison

The number 1 is late again and the rain is stamping down like a child splashing in puddles.
I wonder if the bus drivers care that the seven people waiting have been on their feet for most of the day.
The Scottish winds howling nipping at our faces and begging to hold our hands.
Trying to sink deeper in to your coat and wiggling your fingers so they don't drop off.
I starting to believe that the bus drivers have a bet to see which passenger get mad.