Image by o palsson via FlickrThis poem has been banging around in my head for a few weeks as I've tried to find the right words to say what needed to be said. It's a poem about timing, or the lack thereof, and about whether patience is justified when you know not whether your travel companion will arrive on the next Metro subway train or tap you on the shoulder as you stand staring at the board in Penn Station to ask if you're ready to go. But, you hope...
Our eyes peek into the past
To see footfalls in the urban snow,
Arm-in-arm on the long walk home.
Sleepless nights for our country as
Rain audibly sighs on a tired umbrella--
A train delayed by the unspoken fog.
Passengers of time go through the emotion,
Unsure whether loneliness is
Waiting to ride or riding pointlessly.
Stare at the faces that stare back--
Whether moving or standing still,
Life maintains its blur.
A heart longs for the day when
Its bus will arrive or its stop will come;
A transfer pass evident on its sleeve.
But, for now, commuters pass--
Individuality absent from expressionless faces--
None wearing a bright scarf and your smile.
It matters not--line, station, or port--
Our destination in the world
Is wherever we go and wherever we are.
As long as my arm has yours,
To hold and be held,
As we live through delays, departures, and arrivals...