The Bus Stop

By Patricia S.

St. Marguerite d'Youville Secondary School
Brampton

On a gray Sunday morning,
A Sunday morning just like them all.
A man is found sitting,
At a bus stop by the mall.

I see him through my window,
At my store across the street,
He's sitting there with flowers,
Lying beside him on the seat.

The bus comes and goes,
But the old man doesn't get on.
He simply must be waiting,
Sitting and waiting for someone.

Two hours pass by,
And the man is still there,
Clutching the flowers tightly.
While I just sit and stare.

Who are those flowers for?
A lover or a friend,
Or a sick family member,
Waiting patiently for their end?

I can hear a storm is coming,
The wind howls and groans,
The snow comes speeding down,
But the man sits like a stone.

Is he waiting for his sweet heart?
Has he done something wrong?
Did he get her those flowers
For his faults to come undone?

It has been six hours now,
Since I first saw him sitting there.
Is he trying to prove his love
To show that he still cares?

The snowflakes have stopped falling now,
And the sun is starting to set,
The shops all around are closing,
But that man I can't forget.

The last bus pulls up to the stop,
And the old man gets on.
I see the flowers on the bench,
That he left behind for the one.