Waiting for Change

The bus conductor says, ‘no change,’
like a rule carved into the morning.
Passengers nod, resigned and quiet,
a problem older than the street.

A woman searches her bag anyway,
receipts, a comb, loose paper.
Coins cannot grow in drought,
yet she hopes for small miracles.

Someone laughs, not loudly,
just enough to echo in the hollow.
I hold my own coins tight,
counting wishes that don’t fit in pockets.

The wheels turn, grinding along,
each stop a whisper of waiting,
a reminder that patience
sometimes lives in the smallest gestures.