In Transit 1

Every morning – 7:40 – the hydraulic hiss and beep as the bus arrives.
John greets the driver, muffles ‘Morning’ as he swipes his card, turns
and sees her there. Always alone and facing her phone: his bus-buddy girl.
Sunken-eyed but bright as the dusty glare
reflecting from the window through her dark hair. They share seats – not every day –
but always in silence. Sometimes they smile; sometimes their eyes meet,
but they never speak. Next week he’s moving
and he’ll never ride this route again, never learn her name,
never even say hello. He walks by and sits sideways in the articulating accordion section,
imagining his hellos into the deep quiet of commuters isolated in headphones.
It’s better this way. Strangers shouldn’t grow too comfortable.

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1 comment
  1. I enjoyed reading this poem. It is so interesting how we keep people at arms length and most never risking what could be at most a wonderful new connection and at least a passing smile with a short but sweet connection.

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