Written by: John Wilowski

BUS STOP I walked to my bus stop and there sat a man whose hair was all matted, his skin leathery tanned. His clothes were all dirty, shabby and worn you could see his resistance was all ripped and torn. Old cigarette butts lay down at his feet and his gaze was fixed out in the street. I don't think he sensed the sun in the sky, all happiness had rained from his eyes. He had all of his treasures in a shopping cart that he had taken from a local food mart. His currency was in aluminum cans that he had scavenged from garbage cans. I thought about him when he was a child did his imagination ever run wild? Did he dream he'd be famous, did he dream he'd be rich, did he dream he'd ever wind up in a ditch? My bus arrived and I sat down in a seat, looked out the window at him in the street. I left without saying hello or good-bye life moves on and so did I.