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| Departure | |
| Passion took the bus | |
| right out of my life some time back -- | |
| I knew that suffering through the bumps | |
| and the endless stops | |
| that the process of leaving can bring | |
| was more her strength these days | |
| than glossing silver wings over clouds | |
| chasing sunsets. | |
| Feeling needed, | |
| she probably chose | |
| the squalor of empty eyes | |
| and chipped tiles at the depot | |
| over a concourse's cold marble, | |
| its streamlined impatience, | |
| criss-crossed contrails like falling stars. | |
| Departures | |
| weave through arrivals, | |
| their comings and goings | |
| seeking warmth in their blanket of crowds, | |
| an anesthetic of anonymity | |
| against the sharp pain | |
| of close, intimate contact. | |
| Sultry and darkeyed | |
| she stands on the floor, | |
| coursed by their sidelong glances, | |
| aware of the current of longing, | |
| the soundless splash of unvoiced questions | |
| handed to her on silver platters | |
| by strangers' stares as she looks down, | |
| finding herself reflected. | |
| I am fond | |
| of the floor that she walked now, | |
| I stare at it, wearing its sight as an amulet | |
| against the silence arriving | |
| that steals the scent of her perfume | |
| and the warmth | |
| from the things she has held... | |
| © Jon Bohrn (2000) |
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