We are the bus riders
Whose tired, morning eyes, and hot cups of coffee seem to tell our story
We are the ones who constantly jiggle our change
And are engulfed in lively conversation
And hunch uncomfortably in what feels like plastic covered seats
But we are only the bus rider for a short time
Because since we are the bus riders
We must end that story at sometime
For once we pull that bell
And find ourselves at our final stop
Our story will temporarily end
Until tomorrow where it will all begin again
