“Waiting for some bus”
There is a place where people sit alone
each at his own little private table,
each at his own little private world.
Tables are cramped in just one room
but still in a mysterious, magical way
are miles apart,
worlds apart.
Once in a while each person peaks onto the other tables
looking into someone else’s world.
Why do we desperately and utterly need to look
but never move to the next table and make it one with ours?
Marcia Israilides