In A Bus Stop

When  I saw her, sitting in the bus stop,
Wearing sweat in her arm pits
In embarrassment,
I found her beautiful.
She sat
Crumpled in herself,
A frightened tissue paper,
Holding the bag of groceries close to her chest.
She seemed lost,
Staring into the future in the middle of the road.
It was an empty street, full of heat and dust;
The usual suspects.
I saw her eyes wonder with the wind,
Looking beyond the bus routes, the frustratingly empty road.
Her hold slipped,
The bag slid down her gown.
She let it.
The polka dots dissolved into the shadows;
She caught me staring.
Dismissed me with a wave of her lashes.
I was a speck of dust.
My weight shifted,
I looked;
Stared;
Intruded.
Conceded.
She lifted her bag,
Conscious, perhaps for the first time, of vegetables on her lap.
A disgusted grimace.
A drop on the next seat.
I waited, to be noticed.
The speck of dust on a
Dusty,
Musty
Road.
The sun trickled in through the shade, irritating her skin.
She brushed it off with an itch,
Getting up, stretching,
Revealing tributaries on her back
Running pell mell to the ridge of her hip.
Her broad arms felt the air,
Crawled out of her fear like a cat,
Yawning at the moon.
The privacy of the street betrayed me.
I felt my prying eyes slide down, looking at other specks that ran the streets.
The landscape bent to her yawns.
The gown felt light in the summer air,
Flapping like the ends of a cape.
The sun shone too bright,
On that little summer noon,
On the deserted bus stop.
I sent myself away;
She stood, wearing sweat in her arm pits.
She was
Beautiful.

 

– Shakya

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