The Stranger’s Road
by Alexander Miller
The wind is all around,
Carrying the dregs of the trees, brown and wrinkled
See, sunny Afternoon.
The wind is cool, carrying me and the man
At my shoulder to wherever we may be going.
Background sounds still and
Ticks seem audible with movement of my ear
As I glance at my wrist.
Waiting is the greatest Tragedy.
My car is full and I star out\
The seat to my left is vacant, and
Passengers hold the handles, vertical and Above,
Slipping, wavering and bouncing in the limited
Space, of the train.
They all had different shoes, sneakers, dress,
Soles worn and battered blister-footed.
Their stops were all different.
Money was different, some
Rattled coins within the depths of A
Pair of pants or shorts, Or
Crisply, freshly printed Faces of
Former slave owners.
Their steps were all different,
Touching concrete, tile, gravel pits, marble, carpet
I close my weighted eyes.
The piercing cry of a baby in the arms of A Baby.
Two lenses fall upon me.
The glare of the sun pauses me,
From his glasses and I see the
Color of His Eye.
There is a story behind that color
And the white around It.
He talks like me,
Moving from subject to subject,
Giving advice and admonition.
There is something odd about this
In the eyes of most,
What is unfamiliar on an unfamiliar path.
I’ve never taken this train before.
This city in the Sunshine State,
I must take caution.
“Don’t talk to strangers,” They say.
The words He offers are more important.
The train stops, and strangers are exchanged,
Another glance at my wrist,
Parted lips leave more words, and I listen.
And this particular Stranger with a once
Unfamiliar stare, is now one of a Friend.
Only for a moment I know him, and his words
And he rises to his feet, the stop is announced,
Before he is to be exchanged,
He offers his hand and farewell.