Urban Gypsy

He came by my bus stop one cold and rainy evening.
He said that he was a gypsy, then he asked me if
I knew where I was going.
He didn't wait for my answer but instead continued
on speaking. I am going but I don't know where I
am going. I am going but I don't know where I am
going. I am going but I don't know where I am going.
Most people turned away from him or laughed.

I did not. I am going but I don't know where I am going.
The cars and buses zoomed on past over the wet street beside us.
I am going but I don't know where I am going.
The neon jewelry of the buildings reflected
their false promises upon the people and sidewalks.
I am going but I don't know where I am going.
He was short and unshaven.
He carried his home in a plastic shopping bag.
At least he was truthful to himself.