bus stop strangers

It's a winter's evening,
about six hours past noon.
I'm contained within my own little world, but
that is not to be for long.
Crunching and clomping starts me from
cranial meanderings
Suddenly another is there
Red toque over long hair; dark, it seems.
No eye contact, no introductory ice-breaker.
You too have appointments within your self.
Standing, us both, awaiting.

Painted as a tableau, streetlights shining
across snow and inky glistening black roads.
Lights, green, red, casting streaks from traffic lights
the orange hand alternately shouting
and silent, calling a simple message to unpresent pedestrians.
A third joins us, wheeling a bicycle.
Hatless, mittless, he keeps his hands in his pockets
after fiddling with a black-striped white card.
A WatCard, maybe. His passport to transport.
We stand silent, nearly unmoving,
three unfamiliar musketeers,
promising nothing less than continued unspokenness,
All for none, and one for self.

Near statues we are, waiting.
Waiting, quietly for a bus to come
To continue our journey of silent solitude.

Written by: Lukas A. Matthews