The man at the bus stop

There is this solitary bus stop,

at the end of the road

Across from suburban bungalows

With gardens freshly mowed

 

I cross it every day

on my way home from work

with people leaning against its posts

Students, executives and sundry berks

 

But late one night, on a lonely walk

I saw an old man, sitting under its awning

His glasses glinting morbidly under the streetlight

Possibly awaiting an early morning

 

I recognized him as one of those sad pensioners

Whose son frequently dropped him here

To board a bus that would take him somewhere

Without a friendly face or helping hand near

 

I made my way to bid him good night

and ask him what he was doing at this time

But I took one look at his face and sped up

The sight of him tasted like a lick of lime

 

I nearly sprinted all the way back home

My heart audibly thudding in my chest

My mind buzzing with the last image of him

Still vivid, still fresh

 

I would’ve asked him where his son was

Why his face was as ghostly as the moon

I would’ve asked this shadow a lot more

Had it not been for those ugly gaping wounds

 

When I could overcome my fear

I felt a twinge of pity and then some

Who was going to tell the ghost of the old man

That now his bus would never come?

 

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Published by: Abby

Abha is a final-year law student; She's a trainee family law advocate, a virtual speaker on sexual violence and a volunteer at the local legal aid cell. She enjoys listening to indie rock, reading romantic thrillers and eating Chinese food. She also loves her dog, but suspects her dog isn't too thrilled about that.

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