I’m bad at poetry

Musings on the National Express

I wonder of the story

Of the girl with the coffee

And the man with the red curly hair,

The flowers in hand

Of a kindly old man

And the jogger who runs without care.

I wonder of the story

Of the policeman strolling by

And the boy with the ball at his feet,

The car that speeds past

Not caring how fast

And the couple, so happy to meet.

I wonder of the story

of the postman on his round

And the boat that sails idly by,

The dog led on a lead

His owner in tweed

And the planes, so high in the sky.

The people I glance at are a mystery to me,

but each with a story I’m curious to read.

Am I nosey? Perhaps,

or pretentious to say, that each are unique,

in their own special way.

I care for the postman, the elderly old man,

the girl with the coffee and the boat driven by the invisible hand.

I hope their journey, even if tedious, routine,

encounters something special,

and I would like to know-

hello, passerby, tell me so. `

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