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?