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“Bus Stop”
She walked down the Boulevard,
Towards her favorite bus stop.
It caught the morning sun,
And never had more,
Than a couple of people at it.
She liked to sit in the corner of the bus stop,
Facing the oncoming traffic,
With her sketch pad.
The sun coming up,
Behind the West bound cars.
She would imagine each on its way,
To some exciting unknown adventure.
She could sketch a whole scene,
From just a brief glimpse of the car,
As it and driver flew by.
Today a blond haired lady in her 40’s,
Driving a black “77” Pontiac T-top Trans Am,
Caught her eye.
She saw so much in that one quick look,
She spent hours working on that single sketch.
Adding and taking away her thoughts,
As she transformed them,
Into lines on a page,
Telling a story she could only explain,
With her pencil.
The sun had moved,
Well past her now.
A canopy of darkness,
Hide her as she drew.
She had been in her own little world,
For hours.
Unaware of the people,
Who came and went.
As each bus would pull up,
And temporally block her view.
Her concentration only broken,
Every now and then,
When a kind hearted passenger,
Would ask if she was ok,
Or if she needed money for the fare.
She would smile and nod,
And look back down to her sketch pad,
Or right through them towards the traffic.
As the lady in the Trans Am,
Slowly starts to come to life.
She would begin to feel,
An attachment to them.
As if she was breathing,
Life into them,
With every detail,
She added to her sketch.
She could go back,
And look at a past sketch,
And that person,
That day,
Those feelings,
Were all right there before her again.
As if they had all just unfolded,
Moments ago.
The warmest part of the day had past,
She gathered up her,
Pens, pencils, and papers,
And started walking,
Back up the Boulevard.
The sun was at her back now,
As she returned the way she came.
No great adventure for her,
At least not in till tomorrow.
When she will come,
Back down the Boulevard,
Take a seat in the west corner,
Of the bus stop,
Pull out her sketch pad,
And begin to draw…
Tom Allen…01-07-2017…
She walked down the Boulevard,
Towards her favorite bus stop.
It caught the morning sun,
And never had more,
Than a couple of people at it.
She liked to sit in the corner of the bus stop,
Facing the oncoming traffic,
With her sketch pad.
The sun coming up,
Behind the West bound cars.
She would imagine each on its way,
To some exciting unknown adventure.
She could sketch a whole scene,
From just a brief glimpse of the car,
As it and driver flew by.
Today a blond haired lady in her 40’s,
Driving a black “77” Pontiac T-top Trans Am,
Caught her eye.
She saw so much in that one quick look,
She spent hours working on that single sketch.
Adding and taking away her thoughts,
As she transformed them,
Into lines on a page,
Telling a story she could only explain,
With her pencil.
The sun had moved,
Well past her now.
A canopy of darkness,
Hide her as she drew.
She had been in her own little world,
For hours.
Unaware of the people,
Who came and went.
As each bus would pull up,
And temporally block her view.
Her concentration only broken,
Every now and then,
When a kind hearted passenger,
Would ask if she was ok,
Or if she needed money for the fare.
She would smile and nod,
And look back down to her sketch pad,
Or right through them towards the traffic.
As the lady in the Trans Am,
Slowly starts to come to life.
She would begin to feel,
An attachment to them.
As if she was breathing,
Life into them,
With every detail,
She added to her sketch.
She could go back,
And look at a past sketch,
And that person,
That day,
Those feelings,
Were all right there before her again.
As if they had all just unfolded,
Moments ago.
The warmest part of the day had past,
She gathered up her,
Pens, pencils, and papers,
And started walking,
Back up the Boulevard.
The sun was at her back now,
As she returned the way she came.
No great adventure for her,
At least not in till tomorrow.
When she will come,
Back down the Boulevard,
Take a seat in the west corner,
Of the bus stop,
Pull out her sketch pad,
And begin to draw…
Tom Allen…01-07-2017…