When we meet a stranger
we never try to be ourselves
the words we speak, the things we do.....
are so strange
As strange as the stranger who opens
the door and says - Come!! Have some coffee.
And only when the coffee comes
and the porcelain stains get lower.....and lower.......
do we find a part of us back
The very same which surreptitiously looks around
to see and hear,
and feel and measure.....
As it compares and expects and remembers and schemes.....
As the stranger gives and it takes
and then gives back a little something......
As it slyly looks into the stranger's showcase
and his bed-covers and his furniture
and his dead father's dead photograph
As it looks outside and with sudden reassuring relief
spies upon naked, filth covered children playing in garbage
does the part become whole again and we find ourselves back
with all our words, our habits, our pride and those false quests for false salvations.
Everything then looks......shit so ordinary!!!!
And two strangers die-
One who gives up a telephone number
and the other which will have forgotten it a second later
For further reference