Vortex

I missed my train. 
By fractions of a second.  For a fractious second time this week. 
I sat outside with the exiled smokers in the setting sun.

I shooed away the pigeon beggars,
As they peddled their woebegone tales and looked for left over change;
The rain of rejections running clean off their back.

I watched the vortex of litter and leaves that span between two buildings
With commuters finding themselves in the midst;
Hating or loving passing through its eye.