at the bus stop, the people like to stare.
their hunching outlines, like claws of a raven, curved and sharp.
the humming road is enough for them; the whizzing bicycles and zipping horseflies have a habit of dropping by too.
at the bus stop, the people like to listen.
their ears open or covered, searching for stories in the air.
the rowdy motorcycles are enough for them; the heaving busses and sighing taxis tend to make an appearance too.
at the bus stop, the people like to wait.
they stand or sit, patient but brimming with anticipation.
they are waiting, for someone, for something, for someplace.
the thought is enough for them.
at the bus stop, the people like to leave.
in pairs, or groups, with grinning crescents or empty breaths.
they leave, to return tomorrow, or next year, or never.
the journey is enough for them.
i was at the bus stop.
but i had to go.
maybe i left smiling.
maybe i will return tomorrow.
maybe i laughed at strangers.
but you will never know.
