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Poem

As we get into the cab,
or honcho as it were,
I think nothing of it.
At first.

However, as a little time passes,
as the wind howls around the transport,
rain lashing against the windshield,
the tires and the road they speed down,
the metal hull and the windows -
the windows that glow in the dull light
of all the passing street lamps -
I begin to muse.

How does this man feel?

I hesitate to say 'this little man',
for that is what he seems to me;
but I mean no disrespect.

He is older, perhaps old enough
to have been a wee one
when our kind first arrived here.

So does he drive his honcho service,
hating us?
Making money off those who invaded his Okinawan homeland,
yet inside furious?
Does he resent that we gradually seed our influence here,
perhaps taking away the pure culture
that he so very shortly got to glimpse?

Mayhap, he seethes.

Then again, he could just be a simple honcho driver;
making a living through driving,
just like any other.

Mayhap, he just is.

Few ever spare space in the mind
for the effectively invisible,
the ones we interact with
on a nigh daily basis, but give no regard -
such random thoughts are those that occupy my mind.

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