Sometimes life writes poetry on public transit, and I'm just here trying to keep up.
Overheard Haiku “My hamster is mad— I'm sure he's plotting revenge," pink-haired lady sighs.
Bus driver nodding, sage-like, world-weary, agrees: "Hamsters, man. Who knows."
The silence returns. Wheels rumble philosophical beneath tired feet.
I wonder briefly: Do hamsters lie awake, whispering conspiracies under cedar-chip blankets? Or is it just Monday getting the best of us again?
Wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget… but I still might.
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