Early Bus Stop Confessions

The bus groans awake beneath dull skies,

rain dripping from tired eaves.

Yellow bars slick with the ghost of night,

steam from breath caught in sleeves.

Eyes flicker like streetlamps fading,

cup of coffee spills its quiet.

Sudden stop — a jolt, a gasp —

spills the warmth, splits the riot.

Window fogged in slow finger trails,

blurred faces blur the lines.

Here, between the wait and nowhere,

strangers share soft resigns.

The city hums a restless pulse,

tires grip wet concrete songs.

We ride, unspoken, strangers bound,

where morning rights its wrongs.