In the bus

It is past nine in the evening
and it is cold under the baren trees
On the empty weekend streets
groups of women are chatting cheerfully
and me
in a bus
returning home from work
sunk in my spinning thoughts under the neon light
It is February but
it might be as well November
No difference at all
only a defrosting in spirit
an itch in every stare at every corner
a hyacinth lure dressing the pale moon reflection
and me
readying to get down from the bus
When I notice the old man poking his nose
disgusted his neighbor stands up
I spot a smile on the old man face while
he rests his head on the window
falling asleep
Next stop
the bus gets crowded
another one sits next to the asleep man
He puts his head on the support bar and falls asleep too
in that indecent manner
The night is ruined
Hyacinth and misery and me
bursting out from the bus at the wrong stop

10 thoughts on “In the bus

  1. VijayNair

    A cinematic projection of the narrator’s introspective mood is adroitly juxtaposed with comments on human behaviour. A poem that lingers in one’s mind.

    Reply

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