The Stoic Takes the Bus
The diesel engine vibrates, damp and cold,
As rain runs down the scratched and frosted glass;
The driver checks the clock that’s growing old,
While through the doors the wet commuters pass.
He sits upright amidst the sway and screech,
Unmoved by traffic stalled along the line;
He yields to what no anger can unteach,
And keeps his quiet mind a private shrine.
The world moves on, whether he frets or not;
The red light holds until it turns to green;
He claims no grievance for his crowded lot,
Content to sit within the passing scene.
For peace is not the absence of the din,
But keeping quiet kingdom deep within.
October 2026