Last night, on a bus, city bound…
traveling light with a usual backpack;
feeling nauseous as anxiety creeps,
that fear of the uncharted
as I drifted past towns.
One hundred and twenty minutes after,
seven thousand two hundred in seconds,
I stepped out of the bus (a yellow bus)
while the driver grumbles in his seat
for my short-notice stop.
I was barely even there yet,
but it’s getting cold…
Light-headed, I wandered;
Aching for a cup of warm drink.
I found myself in a bakeshop,
asked the lady there if they have coffee;
need to ask twice, or was it three times?
before she finally moved, poured, stirred,
Handed the coffee, in a paper cup.
Everything seemed not right that night.
Was it the city or just me? I reflected
as I sipped, caffeine opening my senses
The cold started to slip away, while
my mind was still grasping
where I’m headed.
The cup half empty, I started to walk.
On the street, a stranger caught my eye,
a man in deep slumber;
the asphalt for bed.
I thought ~
Why can’t I be grateful
for even the worst cup of warmth?
That night, coffee never tasted that bad.
* * *