She’d always sit, four seat from the back
Reading something daunting, Russian, French,
Classics others shied away from for a thriller,
Girl on the Train, but not for the lady on the bus.
He always wondered where she went to, what’s her job?
Did she sit behind a desk, staring at her screen?
Did she have a studio, in some trendy pocket of the town?
He fantasized about the time they’d meet,
Her eyes flicking upwards from her book,
A smile of halves creeping through that pretty face.
She’d laugh, he’d tell some awful jokes. Suggest a coffee,
So they’d wander down the street, and sit out in the sun
Sipping at the bitter mugs and learning deep
Secrets running through their veins, heartbeats pumping
Whispered love across the table, wobbling as they move.
But every day, he shakes his head and rings the bell,
Leaving her behind, four seats from the back,
Sunlight dappled, as the bus brakes hiss with pain.
He leaves and watches as she pulls away, never looking up,
Never noticing the way he pines, the way he hopes
That one day she will have that coffee in the sun.
One thought on “lady on the bus”
I love the mental imagery here. And it makes me wonder how often we don’t have those encounters we could have, just because we didn’t take a chance and say ‘hello.’ Well done!