Waiting for the Bus

Daily they wait for the bus,

gathering at the corner,

rain, snow, heat of summer.

Staring down at their tiny screens,

trying not to see one another.

The bus noisily arrives,

engine rough from many miles,

belching blackened smoke.

Pavlovian responses kick in,

passes taken out, 

queuing up in order,

awkward, disappointed looks.

The old lady with her basket,

talking to herself, the young dude,

sneering at the suits, everyone

seeking a place in the confines.

The bus roars away,

kicking up dust and stones,

taking its mute congregation,

to their final destination.

Hope and despair,

at the crossroads,

human desires

crowded together,

their souls seeking 

to be free.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s