You in a Crowd
The
mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation. -Henry David Thoreau
Tonight I find myself surrounded by people I do
not know, nor care to know,
Strange men who in-between each shrieking cup of
gin, lead lives of quiet desperation,
Who shuffle past indefinite in their choices, but
uniform in sin.
In the swarming multitude I feel a warm, soft patch
of unfamiliar skin
Brush past, and for a moment glancing back, I glimpse
your face, as in the wind
The belly of a leaf might turn, as if coerced, and
catch a bit of vernal rain.
I’ve seen your face before somewhere. Was it you who sat there on the subway train?
Did I see you at an interview for a job we both desired,
or are you the one
Whose glare I sense in the pictures of a classmate
now deceased, like faded, self-reflections?
At times I almost feel as though we pass dim
recollections
Of ourselves amid a crowd of old acquaintances we never
made, compelled
To turning back to feel the faint touch of who we
might have been.
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