Man on the 7.33am Bus

Dear Man On the 7.33 am Bus Who Sits on the Fifth/Sixth Seat on the Upper Decker.

Every morning, I catch the 7.33 am bus to work, climb the 10 stairs to the upper deck, walk past you, plop myself onto the tenth seat to the left of the aisle, and wait.

At about 7.34am you, the man on the 7.33 am bus, who sits on the fifth/sixth seat to the right of the aisle switch on your music. It is always the same melancholy and soul stirring chanting Is it Tibetan? Buddhist? Taoist? Whatever it is, for the 24 odd minutes I am on the bus, for that pocket of time, you bring me pocket-sized liberation from the hurry burry of life, from the battles won and lost.

Melancholy chanting,
sunlight winking,
folliage rustling against the windows,
nurse with french knotted hair,
hunched old man with white duffel bag,
me with my working day’s wounds,
from battles won and lost.

Thank you, my man. For those 24 minutes, you rescue me from the conformity of life in the city.