Old Man At A bus Stop (Poetry)

This place as good as any for the wait —
the wooden seat an island under glass
the midday traffic steady streams that pass
he sits alone, head bowed and contemplates
the tarmac at his feet. Maybe he feels
the far-off rumble underneath the ground
and recognizes that approaching sound —
time catching up — its wide determined wheels.

He is a castaway amidst his years —
thoughts float their bubbles in the weary air
old memories — old friends who’ve left him there
lost in another world that’s disappeared —
the past the ticket that he travels on
and none to share the journey anymore.
We drove past the moment, glanced and saw
my father waiting for his bus to come.