I breathe in the cold night air as I walk down the city street
I look up at the windows, lights are on, people are alive
They are there, they talk, they listen, they drink, they eat
They are grouped, families and friends, like bees in a hive.
They have their purpose, their feelings, their home
And I walk down the street, alive, yet alone.

Where, I wonder, is my hive? Where is my group?
I look around and there are others like me, walking, disconnected.
Should I smile at a stranger? Should I reach out?
There is a line between us, a boundary not to be crossed.
Will we ever meet? Is this an opportunity gone?
We pass each other, not even planting a memory.

I board the crowded bus, every seat is filled, every face is empty.
As I stand, hand on the cold metal pole, I avoid all contact.
The jacket which protected me outside, stifles me more each block.
I look around, searching for a seat, avoiding all eyes.
They avoid me, too. It is safer that way.
We ride in silence, the squealing of the brakes punctuating each stop.

The woman in the front row stares out the window.
Does she see something in the blackness? Does it matter?
The redhead reads her horoscope, will she heed the advice?
The old man with the reddened eyes stares at his lap
My stop approaches and I sigh and pull the cord.
The doors open and I turn and face my fellow travelers.

"Merry Christmas, everybody," I shout.
And they smile.

-- 4/13/99