At the bus stop she sits,
Huddled away from busy feet,
Wrinkled skin, tattered clothes,
A living corpse,
She is barely more than that.
She hears not the vehicles horn,
Nor notices the endless stomping feet,
Her head bowed, weighed down
In despair,
Her bleeding heart torn.
Near her, a pair of feet unmoving,
A tall, lanky man, his look appraising,
Holding a rucksack and an umbrella,
Almost a vagabond,
His face a mask,he stands wondering.
Suddenly he darts, his strides long
Carrying him swiftly onto the street.
She never sees him come or go.
Though I search,
He is soon lost in the throng.
Minutes later, he comes back,
In his hand a heavy bag.
He stops but for a second, whispers,
And walks away
Not once looking back.
Slowly her arm extends right,
Pulling the bag towards her.
Reaching in, cautiously, she pulls out,
Bananas - yellow and ripe.
Her shriveled fingers clutch it tight.
Neither does she acknowledge,
Nor does he expect gratitude.
In that moment, unheard by the crowd
Love sang
And those of us who witnessed,were changed forever.
(She may not be alive now,
You may not remember giving,
But I who saw everything,
Remember,
And rhyme this story.)
