Grey pavement,
White lines,
Cars whooshing by,
Some going east and some going west,
Each with it's own destination,
Each car a flash of color,
All those people only intent only on themselves.
I watch each one in my silent lonely vigil,
The cold wind blowing my hair,
I shiver,
A man on a bicycle whooshes by,
Then a noisy red bus pulls up and takes me away from Oak Ave.
Author notes
Written October 21st, 2006
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