A poem

Windscreen partly covered with water droplets looking out on road with traffic and green lights (Photo by Tessa Reed on Unsplash)

He glances at her,
this chauffeur-driven
man in business suit,
from within his air-conditioned
made-by-Toyota rain shelter,
one of nineteen such
that slow to a stop
before the glare of
two red lights.
Her eyes stung by endless
darts of falling water,
She silently watches as he
continues his phone call;
smothers a shiver as she
ponders who he is
where he’s headed
what he’s thinking . . .
And if he might like her boiled groundnuts.

Then twin amber suns,
man-made, shine in the rain,
heralding motion;
nineteen keys turn in ignitions,
nineteen engines rev into life,
the lights glow green,
and the metal multitude advances
bearing its load of
histories and destinies . . .

She saw a man at those lights,
But he didn’t see her.

Originally published in 2010 in my Facebook notes.

Published by Doc Ayomide

I’m a medical doctor with specialty training in psychiatry, and I love thinking and writing about what it means to be human.

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