A Few Stops Away

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–after Early Sunday Morning (1930) by Edward Hopper

Alone, I wait for #3030
as the wind makes a mockery of my puffy jacket,
I feel its muscular push slide me across the sidewalk—
a reluctant figure skater on uneven ice.

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I fight her forces, waiting for reprieve
that should only be a few stops away by now.
The rubber heel of my boot catches in a crack,
and for a moment, I stand still,
but my confidence erodes…
a mountain lost to time.

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What am I really waiting for?
I wait for a ride that doesn’t wait for me,
a driver who never knows my name,
a stranger meeting me for the first time…
every morning.

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I wait for them:
Bus #3030 with the crying rear wheel.
Seat G5, sea foam green with raised red petals.
Marcus with the purple scarf and crooked tooth.
Winnie, named after a Wonderful Year, not a bear.

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But who is waiting for me?
Days have become a rhythm
of routines and reflections.

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Meetings that begin without me,
my empty chair just another
unclaimed saddle in the herd.

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I wait for friends to call,
but my phone screen stays dark,
a quiet forest that refuses
to sway with the wind of their voices.

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Love is the bus that never slows for me—
I watch it blur past,
tires whining like a call
I couldn’t answer in time.

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