passing strangers

there are watchers and lookers

in the streets, in the windows, 

there behind the cold concrete

slabs, many tethered to screens

some mock a caring glance,

some actually care, but they

are few and ugly between. now

the feel of crowds are strange

I tie my shoe in the parking lot,

the woman next to me leaves

her son's dirty diaper on the

ground. drives away. a minivan

some brains are spoiled fruit.

roadkill. I find small pieces of

heaven in unexpected smiles.

those are the prettiest. men or

women, young or old. many the

hours are strung together but

few are disrupted by truth and

honesty. outside my window

a bird attacks a squirrel. the

squirrel was playing, the bird

doesn't care. she has a nest in

the tree. common, each little war

(Brian Smyth "Passing Strangers" on irishartpaintings.com)