Bystander

When I am left, again,

holding disappointment for the world I am apart,

I am on a back winding road in torrential rainfall.

Hazard lights blink to reveal a vehicle up ahead:

a dump truck, ambulance, no—

a school bus stops. Yellow lights turn red

in rain so thick I cannot see the tiny stop sign unfold.

A man drapes a jacket over a child stepping off the bus,

cradles him under his arm into their mini-van

parked feet from the bus stop.

Back he goes three more times, sheltering tiny feet

through the monsoon, and my eyes

well with tears at this immense love.

I am a bystander of their little world

suspended between two strong arms.