The Man On The Bus Poem by Michael John Cook

'Poor blighter' I muttered presumptuously,
As I found myself staring at him.
From several rows behind,
I was passing judgement.
Like a jury would deliberate over a mans crime.
What little I knew of him from merely his appearance.
Sat alone as he was and clearly longed to remain.
His large shopping bag placed at his side,
As if to warn off any friendly advance.
His hair as wild as a pack of wolves,
and almost without any colour.
This middle aged man seemingly incompetent.
Wearing the same suit that he'd worn all week no doubt.
The shoulders of which were powder coated with dandruff,
Which it is hard to imagine, he'd be oblivious to.
This lonely figure, almost childlike,
Making every attempt to avoid eye contact.
Each new passenger would pause to glance,
Perhaps even offer a look of pity,
Before escaping to a distant seat,
From which their mocking could begin.
How I wanted to intervene,
But at what cost, might I make things worse.
I dare say he was used to his exile,
Or at the least cared not of their opinion.
I found myself in a state of curiosity.
Who was this ailing figure?
What personality had been laid to rest,
Beneath the dull, creased skin of his brow.
Had it been laughter or worry?
That had permanently etched the lines on his face.
Sat wearily with his backpack in his lap,
His long legs tucked up so he could rest his head upon his knees,
The white socks glaring from his ankles,
Exposed by the ill length of his trousers.
'Poor blighter' I repeated in my head,
What life is this for any human to lead?
Trembling in fear as the youth's march past.
The type, one assumes, that has not strayed from his Mothers reach,
I only hoped for his sake.
As I tried to refocus my attention elsewhere,
No longer wanting to be prude or condescending.
'Poor blighter' I once more thought,
Just a man on a bus trying to get somewhere,
Perhaps without even a worry or care