I would have stopped my car and invited you inside
had I been driving the other way. We made eye contact
across the median, I could feel it. I wonder if you have
children, and if they are even awake yet to know what
it is you do when you leave home to go to work. There
are lines on your face that remind me of my mother’s.
How many sleepless nights do you have racked up?
How many bills are waiting for you beneath your door?
You think nobody thinks about you, but I do.
I look for you every morning when I go to work,
sometimes asking my heart what she would do
if one day, you were no longer there. What would I do?
You are a stranger who has no name, and we don’t
know each other at all. But you have become part of
my morning routine. And when I see you standing at the
bus stop, beneath the rain, I want to invite you inside
to a house I do not own, so that we can talk for hours.