The BusMan waiting for a bus, considers fingers, numbing
As through a foggy morning he sees his bus is coming
Its breaks squeal and hiss as feet clamber out and in
And taking up his seat he too, recumbent, glad of warmth, despite the din
Of early riders, half asleep, as yet not energised for work
Compelled by need to carry on this life and rise above the winter murk.

His head on rattling windowpane succumbs to rhythmic engine’s throbs
And thinks of yesterday’s unfinished tasks and dreads the up and coming jobs
When in his line of sight he sees her, sitting, texting on her phone
He lets his senses have their day, wishing he could take her home
Imagining her in his arms, her lips rolling round his own, kissing
Then feels the hurt of bursting dreams, knowing what he needs is missing

From his seat, he sees her hair hang down her back
He wants to touch, to glide his fingers through its softly black
To stroke her face and kiss her neck and wishing that she felt the same
He wonders where she works, and wants to know her voice, her smile, her name
And on they go along the way until her thumb extends and hits the bell
She’s walking to the door and leaves, and in the going breaks the spell

Until outside she passes by the windowpane
He sees her face which in that moment elevate her eyes to his and once again
The bursting rush of life, a surge of something deep within
Smiles back. Her eyes descend, her smile remains. He weighs up what he’ll lose or gain
Then letting all convention fly, and in the twinkling of an eye
He’s thumbed the bell and wonders if ‘Hello’ will do, or ‘Hi’.

The Bus a Poem by Richard Coppin

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