Hands at the Bus Stop

I see your hands at the bus stop, tapping away,

each finger a dancer in rhythm with day.

The rain blurs the lines of your coat and your phone,

a small world unfolding in moments alone.

A flick of the wrist, a wave to the crowd,

your hands are the language, bold yet unbowed.

They cradle the warmth of a coffee cup's rim,

a pulse of connection in the gray, growing dim.

As droplets race down the window, they weave,

your fingers compose, while I quietly grieve

the comfort of others, their lives intertwine,

like threads in a tapestry—though mundane, divine.