from Bus 66

One, one raindrop–
One tear from the sky.

Two, two people
standing with me at the bus stop.

Three at the stop.
Three minutes gone by.

For hours, I’ve been waiting,
(or at least it seems like hours)
waiting for a bus that just won’t come.

Five fingers counting off the minutes,
growing cold with the damp–
Five fingers gone numb.

Bus 66 where are you?
Where are you 66?
Again, I ask my wristwatch–
“Bus 66?” it ticks.

I turn to ask the others,
the two who also wait,
but they stand beneath umbrellas,
unafraid of being late!

They don’t clock the passing of the minutes.
They don’t share my worry and my doubt.
Their colorful umbrellas swirl and twirl
and shut me out!

One drop–
shatters into many.

Two people–
sheltered from the sky.

Three at the stop–
only one, unlike the others,
is drenched to the bone,
while the rest are warm and dry.
Four, five–
I play my counting game,
as I wait for 66,
searching for that distant flame!

Two headlights,
just around the corner.

Two yellow suns,
swallowed by the rain.

-–Francine Trester ©2000