Waiting With a Stranger

My guide dog circles once,
groans, settles by my feet.
A plastic bag crinkles
as a breeze
shuffles through the station.
I imagine a woman

waiting—as I am—
for the train. What
is she carrying? Another
breeze touches my neck

and goes to her—
the bag rustles again.
No one but us, I think;
she doesn't speak.
I stand as the local
lopes to a stop, and then

the conductor is at my arm
guiding me toward it,
telling me to avoid
the trash can in front of me
just as another gust
blows up the skirt of its liner.

Copyright © 2003 David Simpson All rights reserved
from River Styx
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission