City to Airport

The sky reaches pink alien fingers
Briefly, carelessly, brushing our faces
There and gone again as if we are not special
Setting our little world aglow, as though together we are.

A woman in the back seat sings a song about a rebel
Over and over in a voice of the blues
A voice that has known of sorrow and loss; an old soul        
Hers is the beauty of churches.

Towards the front, a man with a ponytail
Clutches a suitcase and taps his foot
Nervously; this place is not his place
Downcast green eyes tell the story he won’t share.

German tourists huddle together, a gaggle of them
Chattering excitedly, out of touch
This world holds no value for them
An existence barely discerned.

The lone businessman is carved in stone
Briefcase laid full on the seat beside, dissuasive
A little frown between heavy grey brows the only clue
Of his awareness, annoyance; who dares to sing on a bus!

Rhythmic squealing announces my stop; I’m ready and standing at the door
And my curiosity overcomes
I look into the back for the woman who sang
And there is no woman there.

Just a young boy in a tie
With an air of desperation.

Reviews

[a Messenger]

Beautifully done. I love the perceptiveness of your observations.


Great work.

[Natasha Ashway]

Impressive first lines are always a delight.
'The sky reaches pink alien fingers' couldn't be anymore impressive.
I like the fleeting impressions, the standby motion.
Nice work.