The Passage Contains Shadows

Time stands to pause,  
from the everyday,
the too familiar,    
the knowing, of one's heartbeat.     
   
Consistent shadows,
in their progression,
pass through Cottonwoods,
that urge me on,    
to sit on this bus bench,    
where paint peels,
into curls, off old pine boards.    
   
Some remain with me, catching on spiders web,  others dance
with the breeze
that takes them    
to land in a heap nearby.    
   
Silver- blue Greyhound glides by, on her way, 
(without question)    
to where, she's gone
before.    

An expected glimpse caught, from the corner
of my eye.    
The same tired looking
man, wearing brown tweed,  His face like a wayward friend, that no longer
visits.    
Stories, pieced together    
from these brief moments stored,    
in my memory that tells    
me he has traveled farther,   than he had ever planned.    
   
A downward smile    
and furrowed  brow
shows old ambition
fading    
I cannot erase the times
our eyes met, it's not
something I want    
   
His attention stopped,  grabbing hold
of the roadsigns
long enough to look
 my way     
I wonder if he,
is as pleased, to see me,
as I am, of him?     
   
Does he like, the way morning glories turn,
their blue faces
reaching high, with
determination as I do?