The Morning Bus

I always sit a few rows behind you.
You definitely notice me now.
We share a journey, this silent intimacy
most mornings, 7.17 till 7.47.

No-one in your life sees you like this.
But I do. He does. So does she.
One body every two seats, like a tree-lined street.
The concealing, commuting eyes, giving nothing away.

Here’s our stop; we know exactly where the other is going.
We don’t walk there too close if we can help it.
We know nothing more of each other, but we know this part well.
What a fabulous start to the day.