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Strangers on the Bus

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Strangers on the Bus

Your world is just about
to branch away from mine
just as the two of them converged
moments ago, and settled in;
out of thousands that I see each day
what makes me look at you
across the aisle 
and trace your gaze into infinity?

A commonality is far away.
Did you once share a baby's wooden blocks
and build a tower for his delight,
to shatter down?  ...and build again
for  yours?
Did you forget?

I look across the chasm 
of the consciousness that we might share, 
and see it widening.
I see the numbers ranked like soldiers
in your mind, your schedule crowding in,
the memory of scent you know so well
upon the girl you'll meet in the hotel
at five.

Our lives are not commodities
we would exchange,  yet still they sear
the moment with their nonchalance,
their downward glance,  their inner lights
of mutuality that filter down like dust,
the likes of common friend, of taste,
of faith—all silent hasting to their rest.

There is no greeting, no goodbye,
and no acknowledgement
that either of us make.  
But there is thunder
rushing in to our vacuity,
resounding still, the cry of the pursuit
in vain that you and I,
the thoughtless hosts of mystery,
will never entertain.

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