Bus Stop Words

The rain was cold that afternoon,

The sky a bruised and weary gray.

We stood there waiting, me and you,

With nothing much at all to say.

I think I asked about the time,

Or maybe made a foolish jest.

Your answer came, precise and low,

Putting my small talk to the test.

It wasn't anger, wasn't shame,

Just quiet fact, a steady stream.

A simple truth, a gentle prod,

That broke apart my shallow scheme.

I can't recall your face, your name,

Just how the yellow taxi gleamed.

And how your voice, so calm and clear,

Made all my careless notions seem

So thin, so poorly understood.

I still replay it, though I should

Let it go, but the sound,

It just hangs there, unbound.