I stare at nothing out the bus window
Motionless in morning traffic on the Tobin Bridge
The low hanging fog of a New England conversion stares back
Not smiling, not frowning, but agreeing,
There is more out there
I just canīt see it
Even as I feel the vibration of movement
Inches, maybe yards, maybe miles passing underneath me
Iīm no further from yesterday, nor closer to tomorrow
Than when I started today
And I learn to wait patiently
Aware that the view may change as the journey continues
And I vow to keep asking, where am I supposed to be?
I want to be ready, when the fog clears...
Hey, driver! This is my stop!