He waited at the stop.
A moth hit the streetlight once
and moved on.
Tattered timetable
was out of date.
He read it anyway.
In the glass of the shelter
he saw himself, nothing special —
just a face in a surface
doing what faces do.
A bus passed.
He didn’t signal.
It wasn’t his route.
.
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Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: March 30th, 2026 05:07
- Comment from author about the poem: The bus stop poem in alternative tone- more direct, this time 🚏🚌🙏🏻🕊️
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 11
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
- In collections: 2026.
Offline)
Comments5
Metaphor? Do we not all wait at our stop? The moth, the light, hitting the light we do move on. Our timetables are it seems out of date. Not knowing for sure when our bus may come. Our shelter, the world, reflects images of ourselves and if we look we are nothing special. Buses come and go but it is ours we must signal. A lovely write Cryptic
We do indeed in a non Harry Potter kind of way but sometimes akin to that as well, depending on how things are viewed! Thanks so much, Soren🙏🏻🕊️
Oh Harry Potter I thought that was a train station. My view is distorted from the diesel fumes in the air. Must be magic. You are most welcome
True that, but they did have a short bus scene where the typical red London buses pulled thin like taffy and squeezed through traffic; if memory serves 🚌🙏🏻🕊️
You are right it has been so long that I had forgotten
A fine write, arqios.
Love this - so simple and yet it conjures up a powerful image - I could easily be there alongside.
Arqios, that moth hitting the streetlight once and moving on…that’s the moment that stays. It sets the tone without drawing attention to itself. Well done, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Yes - see, he wasn't waiting for the No.7 bus, but for the No.11 bus! He may have been waiting for a different bus from the other day. lol.
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