A man he passes the bus stop everyday,
From his work, when he passes leaving
a tired air he's proof that I made it on
time,
While I sit on the bench, by the sign
Waiting but also counting to myself
Like a prayer not only for the bus
To arrived and take my Dollar quarter,
Dropping me where I would walk to go
home to noise and the smell of my
mother's cooking dancing in the kitchen
I'd ask her what she cooked, after a
while I've greeted my family,
For it's rude if I don't and just come
bargain in there
The house-
Though I'm not a stranger I live there to,
She'd tell me what's cooking up a storm
In the kitchen that I could've smell,
From my work, to the bus stop, to me
praying softy that one would arrived or
don't eating my quarter-,
Yet I'd replied good, heading to do
something else,
looking for I don't know what
like a child who's not starving
For words, for something, for food, for
nothing.
-ashes poetry
