Yesterday I saw my bus pull away.
It drove right past me.
Slow. Deliberate.
The driver tooted his horn.
I raised my hand.
Moving it in the motion of goodbye.
Staring at the faces of my works.
Unfriendly friendlies.
They looked askance.
Mouthing wordless pleas.
I looked away. Buried my hands deep in my pockets. Whistled.
I am waiting.
Waiting for the next bus.
Waiting for my story to come.

3 responses to “Waiting.”

  1. This is beautifully reflective. Has me going ‘Hmmmm…’

  2. Mikias Abebe

    Sometimes you have to walk to the next bus-stop.. Maybe you’ll get a better route? 🙂

  3. michael onsando


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