My Stop

Strangers lives,

Fleeting times,

Bus passengers,

Exchanging glances.

Flip-flops, sandals, shoes.

A variety of characters and stories.

Some on their way to work or someone to woo,

Carrying freshly picked flowers.

A baby cries out in the silence.

The mother shushes and gives a cringed smile,

The opening and closing of doors,

Each getting off at their own stop.

An old man clutching newspaper,

What's the news he's been waiting?

We are all coming or going,

One of my past times is to wonder.

Some women like to dye their hair,

Others give it an untamed air:

Braiding, curling, straightening,

All want something different than what they have.

I see them as shapes and colours

There's a girl wearing black all stars

Another adjusts her husband’s collar,

It’s in the grip of a hand, the twitch of a leg

Beneath the mask,

Some are smiling, some are crying

Some will have an unwanted child.

Some can’t marry the love of their life.

All because of the driver

Man and Woman,

What does it matter the combination

Why should you have a say in someone's else's life?

All passengers, in a bus driven by a man.

Sometimes he doesn’t stop,

Doesn’t hold open the door,

We have to push and pull and scream to be heard:

“This is my last stop!”