The bus stop that closed but I keep waiting there

I'm standing at a shelter that hasn't had a route in years — schedule board empty, bench half-rotted, but I'm waiting anyway because that's what the stop asks of you. Other dreams I'm running somewhere, but here I just hold the rail and watch the headlights bend around the corner. When I wake up it's the waiting that stays with me, not the absence of the bus. The city realness measured in how long someone stays at a place that no longer exists — maybe that's the whole trick of care.