Poem: Cross-Town Bus

Waiting at the bus stop; an assortment of people
To take a ride for a dollar fifty on the cross-town bus
An old lady with resigned patience
A man in a suit checking the timetable on the pole
A young mother with her toddler and
A woman with miscellaneous things to sell for a dollar each
All waiting for the cross-town bus

The bus makes its appearance turning the corner
A trailer bus, like an earthworm patiently traversing a leaf
Traffic lights to negotiate, trash trucks to navigate
Wayward taxis and jaywalking pedestrians to avoid
The passengers now joined by a cell phone wielding nanny
All watch the bus make its way to them in an endless series of stops and starts

The bus arrives, magically on schedule
Doors open to a signature tune of beeps and hisses
The driver, from the polite third of the driver population, bids good morning;
Feet shuffle onto the bus, hands rustle for fare cards, strollers maneuver, children tug
The cross-town bus is ready to inch its way to its next stop

The bus journeys back and forth all day across the Central Park divide
Ferrying passengers, each on a mission, young and old
East is East, West is West; never the twain shall meet
The cross-town bus with this trip stitches another knot; weaving the fabric of this city.