in a day

A toddler leans out of his stroller, pointing and shouting,

delighted with something he sees or

demanding directions at his nanny --

I'm not sure which.


His grey-haired guardian, 

unrelated but nevertheless tethered to the tiny tyrant,

leans in to listen. To accommodate his mood.


An old woman boards the bus, all in white.

Like a bride coming down the aisle she moves past us

looking only at an empty seat in the back. 

We twist our bodies to give her room.

Graceful solitude: carrying all that she needs within her.


And me.

Some days I feel invisible 

because I've made myself that way, and it is a relief.

Other days I'd like to point the way 

and have someone drive and listen and accommodate.