The Bus Driver

He picked me up every morning - 6:15 sharp.
The bus driver opened his door and I climbed in.
He drove me wherever I would go: to the library, to the movies.
He drove me back to high school, or through his college.
Some days he took me to political rallies.
Others, to the therapist's.

We laughed, the bus driver and I, and we sang.
We made jokes, and we poked fun at people we saw out the window.
I would go wherever he would drive me.
Then one day, I arrived at my spot - 6:15 sharp,
And the bus driver wasn't there.
His union boss had called a strike. The bus driver wasn't coming.

I sat and waited.

I soon realized I was not alone. 
There were others waiting for the bus driver, too.
They'd been here all along.
They'd been to the library, and to the movies.
They'd been to the rallies, and the college.
Even to the therapist's.

We talked.

We compared bus routes.
We laughed at our similarities, and noted our differences.
Then we sat back and waited for the strike to be over.
They soon tired and one by one,
Decided to walk on their own
To the library, and the movies.

But I'm still here.

I'm waiting for the bus driver to take me some place new. 
And one day this strike will be over,
And the bus driver will return  - 6:15 sharp.
He'll open his door and I'll climb in.
I will go wherever he will drive me.