Swedish Bus Queue

They disperse like gray grains
of pepper on soup,
intelligentsia in a gallery

guarding unspoken space,
limits solid as unseen,
dimensioned for a wild laughing windmill–
arms outstretched, hands lifted open,
face raised flat in a solar pool–
but they lurk in crenellations
wishing air could cloak,
equidistant as ripples
in a boarding flow.

They shun the windows, invite the thumps
on shoulder and knee, endured but grimly
for the sake of that sanctum
staked out with a glove
or newspaper scrap,

surrendered, at best,
with silence.

 

Jan '00

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