This morning I sifted through a stack of old, abandoned notebooks in which I used to scribble and found a series of vers libre poems filed under the organizing principle “Poems for Strangers who I Know.” I probably wrote them 5-6 years ago and I’m 99% sure that they’ve never seen the light of day (and there’s a probably a reason for that, but whatever. We tend to lose our shame as we age.)
Man on Fort Point Channel Bridge
You walk faster than me, and you never carry an umbrella.
You are bothered by a little rain, tiny drops
Flecked into your matted gray hair,
Targeting your eyes.
But when it pours, you relax your neck, and streams
Run down your face onto the floppy collar
Secured around your neck.
Woman with Sunglasses on the Red Line
You always have a seat in the morning. You
wear a variety of sunglasses with darkened frames.
You sit with precision and boredom, as if daring
the train to crash.
Man Behind the Counter at Central Convenience
You punctuate every sentence with the word “Boss.”
“Good morning, Boss.” “Yes, Boss. “Thank you, Boss.”
I think you are Indian.
You look happy as hell to be selling me chocolate.
Woman with the Leather American Flag Jacket
You work in the copy shop downstairs. You sit outside
next to the doorway of the fire stairs, with
a steaming cup of coffee and smoldering cigarette,
your Leather American Flag Jacket loose
on your boxy frame. You’re a stranger who I know
who I want to know better.
Man at the Harvard Coop Bookstore
You sit in an arm chair, your girth folded
over a book. You read. You turn pages
gently. All the world’s a library,
and all men and women merely commas.
