I wrote this on the bus on the way home on the 501, one long OR day ...

Bangkok From Bus No. 501

A sleeping child with golden tresses
A businessman with unknown stresses
A taxi-driver with broken English
A coy receptionist acting childish
A tired secretary, eyes flutter
A mad vendor on a bike putters
A limoed diplomat, face unseen
A wanna-be pop star, plastered with cream
A shaded policeman, counting his gold
A distant face with a story untold
A tailor, Indian, can’t sell his wares
A working mother, great burden she bears
An engineer, a contract, money galore
A sweeper girl, poor, works her hands sore
A consumer, and an ad, changing her tastes
An exchanger, shrewd, resetting his rates
A world, happy, sad, running a rat-race
A city, poor, rich, breathing toxic waste
People, different, alike, but with a common need
Souls, in their hearts, let’s plant God’s seed