The Bus Stop is Denver

There used to be a tiny old man who each morning woke up and went and sat at the bus stop just off the intersection of Broadway and Littleton. I’d see him scooting along at the crack of dawn, walker in hands, until he finally sat and rested on the green bench. There are all types at this bus stop. Noticeably, there is a school for the blind down the street so it wasn’t unusual for a pair of blind folks to come wandering over, canes out and standing patiently at Broadway and Littleton, waiting for the bus. They talked about the weather or their loved ones, anything really. The tiny old man sits quietly in the background, head turned slightly down and listens to every word they say. I kept to myself. Ears lost in sounds. Anyways, the bus would come along and the blind folks and whoever else the day blew in would board the bus. I too would board the bus, and grabbing a window seat I would look out and see the tiny old man still sitting there. I’d go work my entire work day and coming home from it all, there still would be the same tiny old man. He would sit there all day, in the sunshine, in the cold fall, he would sit at the bus stop. He’d be there for the raging hormones of the Littleton High Schoolers, for the zombie morning commuters, for the single moms hustling groceries. He knew something. He knew that if he stayed in one place, the right place. The world would come to him, and from that very same place, then the world would leave.

Author: brice maiurro

Denver poet. Author of Stupid Flowers, out now through Punch Drunk Press.

2 thoughts on “The Bus Stop is Denver”

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