The Bus Stop

Raindrops that echo against a glass pane,

And rivulets of water that run through the grain,

An old wooden stand that shelters the bleary,

The workers, the travellers, the old and the weary.
 

The yellows and browns, oranges and blues,

The purples and greens and iridescent hues.

A shield of umbrellas that cocoon the intrepid,

The foot soaked army of the wet heavy headed.
 

A girl with a teddy bear holds a warm hand,

And listens to voices she cannot understand,

Whispers of memories and hopes still to come,

Echoes that ricochet then scatter so random.
 

The bus stop is teeming with bodies’ en mass,

There is no disparity and no difference of class,

The poor and the lowly the rich and the bright,

Await their own passage and its fleeting respite.