Some guy's phone starts ringing

Silence at the bus stop, or maybe
everyone is listening to the traffic
blairing on like a mad and tall auntie you haven't seen
in, say, fifteen years. Occasionally,
an eye gets caught on another eye.

They quickly untangle themselves. You know.
Something notable might happen.
Something a bit magic. You know. The other day
a butterfly nearly landed on an elderly man's bent nose
trying to shelter from the rain,
which goosebumped the river's back.

More eyes catch and detach.
Most patrol one each other's boundaries
like a bunch of positively-polarised magnets.
Then some guy gets a phonecall. It's his wife,
or his girlfriend, or his mum at a stretch,

and it's like a fishing hook was dangled
right down his throat, slipped through the lip
of his voice, and yanked hard.
The eyebrows waggle, and it all comes up:
hearty heaty cheer, polite curiosity,
undigested sarcasm, a hunk of schedule,
the odd joke, backbone.
All the stuff everyone's happy to stomach
when it's simply a case
of waiting for the blasted bus.