Waiting for a Bus

I stand and wait in the freezing cold,
Awaiting the bus which I've been told
Runs to a timetable, twice and hour;
Shivering badly I try to cower
Behind some shelter, out of the gale,
Which though I'm well-wrapped still doesn't fail,
To slips through my clothes with an excess of zeal,
Reaching my skin and so making me feel
As if I am turning most surely to ice,
Which certainly, definitely, just isn't nice.
Eventually after a long time has passed,
My wait's at an end, as the bus comes at last.