Passing Through

I do know that I was sitting alone.

There was a distinct feeling
that I was waiting for a bus.

I wasn’t really waiting
for a bus, but for death,
or for my eternal life
which was all around me.

I didn’t know if I’d
ever write again,
or who I’d be without
my writing.

Death comes as a feeling of passing through,
when we see that we’re not
from around here.

We are always passing through.

We are always not
from around here.

I am a solitary bird, I forgot
to tell you.

Watching the newspapers flap against the buildings
and then fall still.

Listening to the newspapers rustle between fingers
and the background music.

I forgot to tell you
I’m not lonely
even though I spend
my mornings in silence.

I forgot to tell you
I’ll never be lonely again.

Because I found where I belong
where everything’s moving
and I’m still, or
where I’m moving
and everything’s still,
or where we’re all moving or still
together, with only the bus
to think about
that never comes,
only the feeling of it coming comes,
only the feeling of an eminent departure
of never arriving
flapping around like the newspapers
and watching ourselves.

Sometimes it’s obvious,
that we’re all ghosts.

Our bodies phantoms
in the café light
while the gray day grows
outside despite.

Drinking our phantom coffees, with our
phantom voices echoing.

We’ve been a lot of places
and have forgotten most of them.

We’ve been a lot of people
and have forgotten most of them.

Even though they’re as close to us
as our breath, as familiar as our warmth that glows.

This will all crumble someday
and we’ll be somewhere else,
having passed through,
waiting for a bus somewhere else.

Another bus stop full of ghosts
sitting with our steaming coffees
and our gourmet treats, and our breath
vanishing just like before,
but with a few different thoughts.

I forgot to tell you,
I like my aloneness
in the company of everything
that’s passing through, just
as I am.

I forgot to tell you
that I’m at the bus station
but I’m not leaving.

Someday, I’ll scribble
a few sentences that will last,
and then even those will perish.

Walk with me later
after I’ve been alone,
and we’ll watch the day pass
and we’ll rustle the papers
between our fingers
like a couple of ghosts
who don’t know they’re ghosts.