Bus

As I am waiting
the dust drips down
on the nest of the noble creatures we so belittle
and as they scurry to save what they cannot they are brutally buried
but the bus has not arrived.

And as I wait
that vintage volkswagen that sped savagely by will not make it
to the destination it decided on
upon receiving news of a loved one
hurt by heavy duty machines
Still the bus does not arrive

While I wait
the friendly, fragile old man
residing on the second storey of the ruddy
building behind the bus stop
will only have awoke, taking no heed
of the subsiding storm but of the calm after -
heed of warm, worn floor beneath his feet
and not of the potently precarious puddle
impending is his fall

And as I wait
she stays seated at the sushi deli
wincing at her watch's report -
it's been an hour and counting -
till she takes off, out of control
crossing the road to chase a cab
not noticing right behind
a burglar on a bus bolting beyond brakes toward her
seeing her he singlehandedly swerves sideways
only to venture into the volkawagen's path
and the course of the collision causes them to crush
the helpful neighbour on the way to reporting the old man's fall
and some blood even splatters beautifully onto part of the ants' nest
and onto my face
but I wipe it off, assuming it is the rain
as I look in the other direction, headphones blasting with music
waiting for my bus to arrive.

©Amanda Tee