Crosstown Lament

Over the next few weeks I got in the habit of calling in sick to work quite often.  I wasn't really sick, I just felt too distracted to concentrate.  The first couple of times I tried checking the bus stops but didn't have any luck.  I  was lost and couldn't figure out which way to go.  

There's a coffee shop a block over where hipsters hang around.  I guess I'm one of them, although I don't really have any friends there.  An entire wall of the lounge is like a big bulliten board.  It's littered with items for sale, lost cats, and random thoughts tacked up for no one in particular to read.  From time to time, I would scrawl a half-hearted stanza of poetry on a napkin or scrap of paper and stick  it up there unsigned.  

Fully aware of the sad-sack mope I had become, I re-read my latest pinned up napkin.

As passengers we passed,

with a shared moment spent.

But missed our connection.

My cross-town lament.

I don't know how long I had been standing there staring at my own sadness when a short brash androgynous person interupted my self-pity.  

"You posted that one like, two months ago." they said, motioning down towards the other end of the wall.

I nodded a dismissive acknowledgement, and wandered down in that general direction reading snippets of the layered scraps of paper.  

My heart jumped when my eye landed on it, hanging out from underneath two other papers.  I could see half of a printed bus schedule with a stop circled.  I ripped down the paper that was stapled over it; a flyer for open-mic night at the cafe next door from three months ago.  In the margins of the schedule I could read the feminine handwritting in ball point pen.  

Your pass made in passing

is gone like fare spent

We missed our connection.

My cross-town lament.

The End

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