Bus Stops.

They left the Indian construction workers at the bus stop. 

Standing in a clump, waiting to get on but left stranded at an ungodly hour. Skin stained with perspiration and disappointment. Helpless and watching another bus drive by. The bus was not even filled to the brim. The bus was just filled because they were not worth touching skin to skin for on a public bus in the morning. 

They left young students at the bus stop. 

Heavy school bags clung to backs, and no parents’ hands to hold. Eyes wide but mouth silenced. Retreating to the back of the crowd as adults pushed and glared and conveniently cut their queue. They will be late for school, and the bus drove on without making commuters move in. The bus was not even filled to the brim. The bus was just filled because office hours are now more important than school hours. And we have always left the young to fend for themselves. 

They left the blind man at the bus stop. 

Him and his walking stick next to the curb. His arm in a permanent flagging position, and ears trying to identify which bus is his. Well-sighted citizens saw the bus semi-filled and forced themselves up; blind to his existence. Another bus drove by, and he was left wondering if that engine was his bus. The bus was not even filled to the brim. The bus was just filled because no one would give up seats and everyone turned a blind eye instead of making way for him to walk. Some of them used to, but not when it is the survivor of the fittest on a single deck during peak hour. 

They left. 

They left. 

They were left behind. 

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