transits

A friend told me a story once, on the train back home, about transits.
Empty spaces, underpasses, one-foot
ways.
and lifts.
People, like you and
I,
where we don't dwell long enough
in these places but we
come and go,
merely passing through.
Wandering souls, like him
and her,
nowhere to go,
stay.
Where do we go from here?
she asked
No one in particular.
Like time stood cold and still like
wind that refused to move
like the passerbys,
I remain here, waiting.
A friend told me a story once, on the train back home, about transits.