At six in the morning,
On the bus,
The only sound the thrumming of the engine,
And the informing of the automated voice.
Rolling down Kendall Drive,
The passengers sparse this early on a Sunday.
Lost in thought, Or a fleeting dream,
Trying to catch elusive sleep.
I get off at Dadeland,
The exhaust and roar of the diesel the only farewell.
Well, the man waved.
The one with the guitar, sport jacket, and nice shoes.
The one that stood with me, in silence,
Waiting for the bus.
Time to go to work.
I walk by full stores, empty of people,
Void of life.
The rare morning fog making this a mystical journey.
The sound of the berimbau and dois pandeiros,
Of Mestre Canguru’s accompanying emotions,
Puts determination in my step
As I walk through a mysterious Miami.
Just another choice, another experience,
In the Game of Life.