Eyes of an old book prophet
Clothes made of furs and coloured rags
Makes her way down the aisle of the bus
With her whole life
In two
Over full
Unwieldy
Duffle bags
To stand, where else?
But right in the middle
Hands tight on the rail
A modern day Ahab
Steering her own ship
She speaks in tongues
“The man in the yellow shirt called me a ****** backed *****”!
Those that can see her stare straight through
The others smile at someone next to them
Strangers sharing concerns
The separate joined by a sudden, fleeting sadness
Underneath
They are in awe of her
All disturbed by her
This woman
This lone traveller
Each tic
Each barely controlled muttering
A reminder
A pointer
Towards their own
Suspected
Madness