Impressions: On the bus home

The familiar number rushed towards the stop,
So I got up, and got in, hustled, not ushered, 
In, by the late-afternoon commuters – 
Heartland shoppers, market-goers,
Other students, silver retirees,

And me. I always take the upper deck,
When it exists. I climb, 
Steep steps on a steeple,
To sit, and watch the scenery
Or the people.

The two excited primary schoolgirls,
Rattling the day’s best-kept secrets
And rumours, without exception,
Even a furtive glance 
Before leaning forward and
Dropping the volume, for some
Top-Level Stuff.

The somewhat exhausted mother,
And her child, both with
The lingering scent of happiness.
A treasured trip back nonetheless,
The remains of the day to stay,
Foreboding and darkness at bay.

A trio of aged aunties,
Well-advanced,
Slow flowing movements, yet
Avidly conversing in the dialect
Where the educated lads fail
An undying spirit of friendship 
Forged in their search for life, 
That it should consist of 
Such bliss moments.

The trees and the grass perambulate past
In search for more sunlight and life
The people get off, or hurry up
The coaxing hiss of bus doors
Enclosing people in a huge glass tank
Exploding with the rich color 
Of the water of human diversity
That each drop was saturated thoroughly
With the spectrum.

Little fragments of water,
Tiny shards of ice,
Minute drops of the glass, through which
We see and give the world
Our life.

 

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