Fingerprints of Strangers

I wake up to a meow,

my new cat nudging

his head against my

side. As I look into

his mint green eyes

I wonder about the

person who gave

him up. Too sweet

and too brave to

never know love.

(He knew to come

to the sound of a

bag of food.)

Wiping the crust off

my long week, off

my meek eyes. I look

out at a tree in blossom.

I notice how many

apartments face the

tree. How many souls

staying and left,

smelled the tree

in its spring bloom.

I slide into a bath,

reading a poetry book.

Used. Ten dollars.

I get to a page

dog eared in the

corner. Someone else

loved my animal.

Someone else smelled

those blossoms. Someone else

read this poem. Felt like

I did. My environment,

this conveyor belt of

other souls. I never met.

How easily I’d trade all

my futures. To meet

them in their pasts.

I got to the end

of the marked poem. It’s

last words:

“But I don’t weep,

do you?”.

I looked at the dog eared page.

I heard my cat cry.

I could no longer smell

the blossoms in the tree.

I put my face in my hands

and then I wept.

Will you?