The Passenger- A poem.

His forehead presses against the glass,
the white stripes
blink past and the bus wheels hum.
The glass is cold. He wishes
the rain gathered there
would gather on his face instead.

He watches blurs float past—
neon letters ghosting before him,
begging for companionship;
grey and cold phantoms
waiting for a different bus.

He wishes he could be them,
the blurs and ghosts
so insubstantial they leave
the faintest impression in the eyes.

Because that’s how he sees her.

Standing on the corner
when he steps into the bus.
Waiting when he unlocks
the door to his house.
Their house. Where she stands
at the edge of the couch
while he watches the news.

And everyday, as he rides the earth,
she waits, just beyond

the corners.

Featured Image by Angelo Andiario under Creative Commons.

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Categories: poetry

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