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.

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