At a Bus Stop

I'm waiting at a bus stop all alone,
It's nighttime, lights are seen in cozy rooms,
I'm chilly, penetrated to the bone;
A bus is never tardy one assumes.
And then the corner lamppost light goes out,
It starts to rain and I am getting wet
But slowly till a taxi swings about
The corner, sprays me with a muddy jet.
At last a bus, I knew it would arrive,
But destination marked unknown to me;
My wristwatch shows eleven forty-five
And underneath my breath made frantic plea.
 Then came my bus but "Depot" on its dome;
 I sauntered up the street, five miles to home.