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They know her too, but not by name; to them, she is only Flower Girl.
The flowers stay beige and still, and they rustle as she runs to the bus stop.
She lives far away from the city; no one wears the long red coats, no one sells flowers out of wicker baskets.
Beige flowers are not for the life of the rust-railed, drab-suited men and women hailing from the glittery buildings.
But every day she waits at the bus stop, basket empty, basket full, and she knows the people.
She knows the woman that comes with her phone attached, whose ringtone prompts reflex, whose eyes glitter with the light of her screen.
She knows the man and his two children he takes to work in the big glass grocery store, because they always come back with two lollipops reward.
She knows the elderly couple that hobbles to the metal bench and falls into it, even when it rains.
In good times and bad, sickness, health, joy and sorrow.
They sit at that bus stop and wait to go home.
But every day she waits at the bus stop, basket empty, basket full, and she knows the people.
She knows the woman that comes with her phone attached, whose ringtone prompts reflex, whose eyes glitter with the light of her screen.
She knows the man and his two children he takes to work in the big glass grocery store, because they always come back with two lollipops reward.
She knows the elderly couple that hobbles to the metal bench and falls into it, even when it rains.
In good times and bad, sickness, health, joy and sorrow.
They sit at that bus stop and wait to go home.
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