The Passenger

Alison L. JamesPoetry

He sits, he stares,
Motionless, suspended
In his colorless world,
In his downtrodden shoes,
Lost in time and space.

His eyes are fixed
Upon the ground,
Head cupped in hand,
Grey cap tipped,
The world passes, but he does not see.

The train doors open,
He glances and stands,
Shuffles stiff-legged,
Hands in pockets
Weighed down by another day.

The doors close, he is gone,
The seat is empty now,
Where is he going?
He has forgotten
That Love will show the way.