Old Woman Waiting for a Bus

Half a block away

I spotted the old woman at the bus stop.

She was leaning into the road

At a clear forty-five degree angle,

As though frozen midway

In the act of flinging herself

Under the wheels of a phantom coach.

Her anxious face was pressed towards me,

Unblinking,  her mouth taut,

Oblivious to sharp wind gusts that fretted

The  scarf about her neck

And flapped her coat thickly

Against sturdy legs.

I knew the schedule.

There was not a vehicle due here

For another twenty minutes.

But, still, I glanced over my shoulder.

Of course, there was no bus in sight.

As I walked past her I said nothing.

She seemed … too set apart … sketched …

Like a still life.

Not a muscle twitched in her

Curve of expectancy.

And I thought: What do I know?

Perhaps it will be early after all.

Cynthia Buell Thomas