Forty-seven minutes
from home and I look
at the lot by the side of
the road to see a couple
hugging each other
and it seemed real
and it seemed desperate
and it was odd because
there was this intimate
moment that they shared
with me and only I know
and I don't know if
that changes my understanding
of humanity or if I'll
even remember it in a few
hours time but I know
that it happened and
that to two strangers
it mattered and I'd like to
think that makes it
important but who knows?
Not me.
People pass overhead
in airplanes cutting paths
through the sky and
they look down on pillbox
homes from heights too
far to make out people
and they wonder about
the various day to day that
goes on under their feet
and who knows if
any of it matters?
Not me.
And in the pages of old
published works are the
thoughts of the dead
and maybe a turn a phrase
moves you or a theme
defines your life and
isn't it bizarre that the
author will never know
what they meant to you?
It's wild that no one
ever knows, not you
Not me.