Strangers

A passing glance at a stranger

A passing stranger on the street,
For which your eyes quickly glance and meet,
You see their life,
What is and what was,
See the person they become,
And then we walk away.

Saturday morning groceries,
Tend to take a hold of me,
A million strangers,
Fish in the pond,
They cannot yet tell what you've done wrong.

The lurid appeal of the third party,
One that has no oligarchy,
Or yet that you know of,
Slowly slips away.

And every strangers eye I meet,
It seems to place a thought in me,
About the life they had before,
And the one they carry after.

Public shopping is a chore,
For those of whom want nothing more,
Than to return home,
Where they are all alone.

But for me these people in the streets,
Who glance away as our eyes meet,
Hold so much to say.
I wish there was a better way.