You see, it’s all those people,
the ones I saw every day at the diner,
at the antique store,
during my walks along the train tracks.
I knew them well. Talked with them each day,
learned about their lovers and fears
and the name of their cats.
I knew their struggles and demons like my own,
shared over coffee or a few minutes each day exposed
one to the other, moving over the years
from strangers to intimates.
Sometimes I even learned their names.
But more often not.
And now I sit at home, wondering how they are,
how they are surviving, how are their souls
in this disturbing era,
And I do not know and it tears at me,
a thousand tiny cuts as I pray for them
and wish I could talk to them and let them know
that they are loved by this intimate stranger.
About this poem
When I see them again, I will learn their names.