Is it wrong?
To watch her
waiting for a bus,
cane planted
in front of her
like a rod or staff.
Her hair, a brown, falls
straight, veiling
her face from us.
Her dress’s dull blue fabric
falls below the ankles,
almost over her shoes.
In her face
if I walk around
I read the inward
squint of the blind.
Do you see
what I’m saying,
the wait she long ago
came to stand in,
do I have the right?
Now she’s standing
full height like
a sunflower, taller
than I am. Offer her
a ride? I have no camera,
& nowadays nobody
offers rides
to strangers.
What to do?
Thus I stand here
in the dark myself.