The End of the Day's Load

He shuffled off the yellow bus,

a small, bent figure, slow.

His shoulders, thin, would not discuss

the load, a quiet, heavy blow.

The canvas sagged, a bulging sack,

straps cutting deep, I could just see.

A whole day's worth upon his back,

a tired, small catastrophe.

He leaned against the unseen pull,

his chin tucked low, his eyes half-closed.

His body, stretched to almost full,

a weary posture, self-imposed.

I watched him go, past the parked car,

a slow, deliberate, heavy walk.

Each step a reach, however far,

too tired for speech, too tired to talk.