The Last Bus

…

I am sitting on a low pine log fence, waiting for the bus.

It is late; buses are infrequent.

The lights in the houses facing the street

are off,

their windows darkened.

Behind me, insects pulse and

the warm air stirs

the large fig tree,

shifting the leaves overhead.

A moment passes.

To the left, leaves rustle on concrete:

a person is approaching,

but their face

is in shadow.

…

They walk into the pool of light

cast by a lamp, head bowed

under a black cap,

but soon they are through

and back into shadow,

where they stop,

facing in my direction.

The insect pulse cuts out.

Then, the breeze stills.

I still can’t see their face.

I try to look without turning

my head, but the details

are indistinct.

I wait.

…

I stay seated on the pine log

and the figure stays in shadow.

Nothing changes,

but the stillness stretches out.

Something in me

contracts and

the dark along the edges

of light seems wider.

The figure turns

and walks the way they came,

and the sounds return,

but the pools of shadow look deeper now.

…