You won’t speak up and I can only guess
why. Such is the case of a doppelganger
who only shows up at the bus depot’s west
side, the one nearest the blue, oh so blue hanger

that holds the transport vehicles like a tight cage.
But there you are, briefly, too light in the bright sun
too fleeting to quite determine if your age is my age.
You with the old gait, and hair I want to call flaxen,

but can’t, no, white as an empty sheet in my journal.
That possibly me person looks so riddled
with opportunities I can’t imagine. Just funnel
them here to share. And then the face swiveled.

Not me after all. Wishful, but a definite mistake.
Oh, twin, not my twin, my hopes dashed in a double take.