Across the road, there's a place I dare not go.
You live there, and our eyes have met and not since.
But still you are, and still I am,
And still the road between, with traffic on it
And pedestrians along each side of it,
Moving in directions, sometimes the same,
Others opposite, and then there are those,
Jaywalkers, I suppose, who criss cross the road,
Avoiding traffic and the sometimes censorious looks
Of those more constrained or self-conscious pedestrians
Previously described.
With all this movement is it any surprise our eyes
Have never linked again?
Or is it something more than the circumstance
Of this road, its users, its parallel walkers
And those jaywalkers, all remaining oblivious
Of you and me, perhaps to their advantage,
Who knows?
I'd ask you, but I never seem, since that once,
To be able to catch your eye.
And the road itself, too threatening to try.