At the Bus Stop

Every day sharp at eight,

          a figure at the bus stop;

stands alone in patient wait,

           in sun,snow,wind,rain drop.

 

He neither goes nor comes,

            he does not board a bus;

in silent contemplation,

             not a word,not a fuss.

 

People come,people go,

              but none comes to him;

none wants to know his name,

               or perhaps his dream.

 

He just stares and stares,

               the blue horizon teases;

till evening drops its wings,

                and flight of birds ceases.

 

He turns to walk slowly,

                 the winding road bids good night;

a lonely figure fades,

                  in the depth of twilight.

 

He reaches who knows where,

                   the silent sky starry;

he takes a picture long yellow,

                    and softly says,'Marie!'

Reviews

[Carlton Rolle]

Another elegant read. As I use transportation a lot, I share some of the feelings. Thanks.