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
– home –