I took the bus for the first time today. Boarded at approximately 11:57pm, almost the next day, dark and wet as this week was a week of correction. Rain fell like hail, wet drops falling down with a speed and force as if it was ice, thunders rumbling discretely as every lightning that flashed jolted listening ears- as if we didn’t hear it coming. This was a foreshadow of what I would find- down at the bus station. The first stop showed me what was really America. I stepped in where we were told to wait to reboard, but it seemed as if we had stepped into another’s home. A man littered in tattoos slept before me, hand between knees, in a worn out red coat that had been soiled too many times and a pants dirty enough to stain the ground. His head rests on a bag and though he seems cold, I registered that it was his home- not because he seemed comfortable, but because he wasn’t waiting on a time impatiently to transfer to the second bus- there was no frantic checking of his watch, which he didn’t wear, no idle checking of his device- which he didn’t seem to have- just rest in a place where he found to be the best tranquil- to put his mind at ease. I looked around and found another, just like him - a woman. She had more and better garments but she slept too much at peace in a place that was supposed to be unknown, this place I realized too was her own. A man of the same caliber shared snacks, tatood and appearing to be an outcast from society - pain and love written on his knuckles on separate hands, but he had compassion- exchanging Doritos with the rocking man beside him who thankfully took it, shakingly eating its contents as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. As I sat there, observing those around me I realized something- there was people to help. My job is yet to be started. The silence is broken as a man belts out gospel beside me, like a lamb bringing forth good news.
A prose poem about a first bus journey, the lives encountered along the way, and a call to compassion.
What does this poem bring up for you?
Create a poem, a letter, or a short piece inspired by these words. Your writing should be your own. Approved pieces will appear here with your chosen name.
“I took the bus for the first time today. Boarded at approximately 11:57pm, almost the next day, dark and wet as this week was a week of correction. Rain fell like hail, wet drops falling down with a speed and force as if it was ice, thunders rumbling discretely as every lightning that flashed jolted listening ears- as if we didn’t hear it coming. This was a foreshadow of what I would find- down at the bus station. The first stop showed me what was really America. I stepped in where we were told to wait to reboard, but it seemed as if we had stepped into another’s home. A man littered in tattoos slept before me, hand between knees, in a worn out red coat that had been soiled too many times and a pants dirty enough to stain the ground. His head rests on a bag and though he seems cold, I registered that it was his home- not because he seemed comfortable, but because he wasn’t waiting on a time impatiently to transfer to the second bus- there was no frantic checking of his watch, which he didn’t wear, no idle checking of his device- which he didn’t seem to have- just rest in a place where he found to be the best tranquil- to put his mind at ease. I looked around and found another, just like him - a woman. She had more and better garments but she slept too much at peace in a place that was supposed to be unknown, this place I realized too was her own. A man of the same caliber shared snacks, tatood and appearing to be an outcast from society - pain and love written on his knuckles on separate hands, but he had compassion- exchanging Doritos with the rocking man beside him who thankfully took it, shakingly eating its contents as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. As I sat there, observing those around me I realized something- there was people to help. My job is yet to be started. The silence is broken as a man belts out gospel beside me, like a lamb bringing forth good news.”
Borrow the feeling, then make the words your own.