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Description
Waiting for a bus
I am, on a Saturday day
on the bench under the tree
which might've had a swing
at some time
Maybe

Old lady, crooked and bent,
like that dying fence,
face wrinkled and round,
comes up, hands me a pamphlet about Jesus
or Muhammad
or none of the above

Small little boy,
tightly holding Mother's hand,
wide eyes, watching the pockets of my coat
like I had something magic in them
smile back at him, his mother glares
come along, son, don't bother that man

Smartly dressed young lady
the college girl, maybe
papers fluttering from her arms
to land on the dirty concrete
lift a hand to help them off the ground,
a smile given here,
a dainty wisp of happiness not often seen
grin blooming like a weed in summer
and then she's gone, me on the bench