After another day at the office
where I do my work hours post-class.
A long road awaits, the day pauses,
the streets simmer down, gone is the mass.
Four-thirty is the last bus of the evening.
A thirty minute walk, the back heavy with my supplies
as the crisp air is there, leaning.
I go to the bus, wondering about the constant why's.
Inside the public transport I stare with half-pity:
from the etched seat to the blackening chewing gum.
As the bus driver revs the engine away from the city
I lean back, drifing to the engine's hum.
Headphones in, from beyond the window,
a landscape of cars and people galore:
tired and half-asleep, expectedally so.
wondering about the before.
It is my quiet time,
a moment of reflection.
My cherished prime,
a moment of inner reflection.
One day I'll be fine,
I'll be better tomorrow.
Once the bus drops me past the yellow line
all is left, is nothing but a distant sorrow.
