Hiding his slowly moving eyes
Behind thick glasses, he is
Reading Kerouac with
Single minded purpose.

The road, the queuing traffic,
The other people on the bus:
All are meaningless; infinitely
Less important than those
Decades old words born
Of a different era.

There are earphones, but I
Doubt there is music; only
Silence to drown out the world.

*
Several minutes have passed,
But I still feel the indentation
In my skin where her feet
Briefly touched my leg.

The traffic makes it only
A short distance away.
Perhaps my skin will forget
When I have gone further?

*
Words are now forgotten, and
Music appears. His eyes turn
Upwards and outwards, to watch
The world we now pass
At speed.

She, too, has her music.
They are two islands of
Solitude, looking opposite
Ways, not acknowledging
One another's presence.

What if they were to
Open their eyes and their ears?
I will never know, for
I will not be here again for
Some time, and my skin
Has forgotten already.

09/27/2007

Posted on 10/02/2007
Copyright © 2024 Richard Vince