She sat on the bus,
Intently reading a book
Filled with another's experience,
Hoping to find an answer within its pages.

The bus lurched forward
Causing her to look up.

They were directly across from her
More pain in plain view.

One of young age, not yet twenty,
A bottle of mil thrust into her jacket pocket.
Another of older age, tattooed, in need of a haircut.
The one with them, clothed in pink polka dots.

As she resumed reading, she could barely contain
The rage that had resurfaced,
An old rage that screamed of infertile unfairness.

Thankfully, she heard another voice as well.
A still, small whisper which said:
"My thoughts are not your thoughts,
neither are your ways my ways," declares the Lord.
"As the heavens are higher than the earth,
so are my ways higher than your ways
and my thoughts than your thoughts." (Isaiah 55:8-9)