Bus Stop




Waiting outside, day in day out, from the morning's beginning, till past the ninth inning.

Crowded before work, people listen, read, write and wait...

Persistent patience while the rain's delaying.

One tune is never ever enough for the Block Side G-Boys, or Barber Shop Harvey Roy.


I see a man reading the world away, his head ballooning with clues of recent lawsuits and South Asian monsoons.

Disasters encompass the world we live in, but he's living in a world that encompasses him.

The typography has got his attention, a quick distraction, from his own inaction;

Is all the thief needs, to do his deed, with God's speed, supersedes his presence;

Heeds to no creed.

Reading about a world burning, with no earning to change, the change he earned

And just like the page, the bus passes, with no regret but a turn. 


A mother strolls in, with a baby or two.

Life begins, gets pushed on plastic wheels, without a whine or squeal

Until they touch pavement with squeaky steal and Michelin wheels.

A natural nurture almost forgotten.

With vine taut like the spindle of cotton; weaved effortlessly out of the ground and

enjoy that bottle, baby girl, like a mother's love was almost forgotten.


Busy women, studious men, black teens, white babies, Canadian brokers, Bolivian bakers: Our neighbors.

Waiting for the bus...

I see them. But they don't notice me.

Like a victim of silence, too busy with the lying of violence.

Anger within will only perspire. The brevity of my transparency only inspires.

The community of folk merges, meets, masquerades

Like a parade of beauty and real living: Doing their duty.

Sometimes I feel I am missing; devoid, like owning a hole.

Until the people come together and the poetry of life makes me feel whole. 


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