Bus ride

Streetlight after streetlight,
casting their soft glow,
not enough to blind one's sight,
illuminating the head propped against the clear window.

Constant is the rumble of the engine,
the wheels grinning against the asphalt,
shaking, trembling, jolting, on it still steamed,
no change on the sea of blank faces even if it halts.

Behind couples entwine in their saccharine world,
housewives shake heads and gossip,
clubbers pout and pose, dressing bold,
elderly struggle to hang on amidst taken seats.

Salarymen with worry etched on their faces,
schoolgirls blush and giggle,
poseurs with low cut jeans and funky laces,
and those who blab loudly into their cellphones right in the middle.

With every hiss of the door,
more would pour in,
all types, all kinds, steps on the floor,
neither kith nor kin.

Away from the maddening crowd,
the seat beside me is empty.
The silence is loud,
and the reality is far too obvious, even for me.

Ng Zhao Yang
12.07 a.m. 16/08/05

I'm back. And how.