I am part of different moments
Which stay long enough
To put them away like this
(wrapped in the alphabet)
People come with stories
And I listen to them leaning
against the window seat
And with an occasional nod.
(and half open eyes. )
Some finish them
But mostly they leave it hanging
And rush towards the exit
In an awkwardness of revealing a lot
I try to look beyond
the spots on the window glass
as people disappear along with their stories.
A more telling story occupies the seat
And we start over.
1 comment:
I know this mr.poet, it is far too real and bare :)
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