Sometimes,
when I sit alone at lunch
many seats comfortably away
from the nearest stranger,
it hits me.
It crushes me.
The nervous anxiety of
a studying student
slowly eating their bowl of ramen.
The giddy, awkward dance
of young love exhibited
by two fearful hopefuls
both freshly showered.
The dutiful expression of industry
on the misfigured face
of a janitor,
a detail that means nothing,
and everything,
doing her job invisibly
among the throngs of the willful blind.
The tired persistence of
the aging groundskeeper as he
bends stiffly over with a flat scraper
to scratch the gum off the pavement.
The friends eating silently,
learning to apologize
one to another and waiting for
the right moment and courage to do so.
The little band of coworkers,
off the clock but not on break
their friendly, talkative supervisor.
The widow with her eyes closed
feeling the presence of something,
of familiarity, or hope, just something,
as she carves new paths for a new life.
The hurting transplant,
looking for service to speak
with the family left behind,
unsurprised but unprepared for the
minute-by-minute struggles of
blazing new trails.
The hungry infant,
smiling and independent,
on the lap of new parents
stealing whatever bites of food
he fancies from his father’s lunch.
The secret holders
who look no one in the eyes
yet long to be discovered.
The mentally ill,
happy to be in the quotidian shuffle,
chasing a day without breakdown,
a day beautifully average
for those not so afflicted.
The winners.
The losers.
The lovers.
The wounded.
And me,
too scared to know them,
too in love not to.
It hits me.
It suffocates me.
It crushes me,
as I sit alone at lunch.
K.A.B.
