Gripe

The Gripe

In the queue for the bus, a sigh escapes,
A low‑grade whinge that lingers like damp wool,
He mutters about the late‑running service,
His gripe a small storm in a teacup.

She sits on the pavement, knees drawn tight,
Her stomach knots, a child’s old gripe water,
Mum hums a lullaby, the bitter taste
of medicine sweetened with a sigh of relief.

At the office, the printer jams again,
Colleagues exchange glances, a shared gripe,
The photocopier sputters like an old locomotive,
Papers flutter, white as freshly‑fallen snow.

Evening draws the curtains, the day’s complaints
fold into the duvet, a soft, muted colour,
Tomorrow will bring another queue, another whinge,
yet for now the gripe rests, quiet as a mouse.