Fourteen

fourteen people

mostly strangers

save a couple huddled couples

aware of the rest

but still disconnected

bubble people

chance bringing them

to the same place

most enter with eyes down

connection neither needed

nor wanted

if there is speaking

it is small and strained

the thread binding them

is precarious at best

it is of limited length

it is knotless

it holds for the moment

then releases

as it pulls through

 

“Will that be all today, Sir?”

“No, I’d like a pack of light smokes.”

 

behind, we notice

only to gauge the wait

who cares if he smokes

if it doesn’t make us late

he matters

only for the moment

his life interacts with ours

he looks back

is he apologizing

because she can’t find his brand

or is he just looking through us

 

she sips her coffee

as she waits

her store card

her coffee club card

her debit card

ready to speed her stay

a scan, a punch, a swipe

and the thread pulls on through

her replacement enters

eyes down

buried in their own world

 

sometime

almost recently

we became strangers

to all those around

courteous greetings drifted away

any feigned concern

replacing genuine

floated on the same wave

 

fourteen strangers

in a gas convenience store

passing through the market

like we pass through life

people enter into peripheral vision

noticed but unnoticed

we begin to forget them

even before we could begin to remember

 

“Why are you late, Jones?”

“some guy at the store

couldn’t find his debit”

“some guy on the freeway

wouldn’t go on”

“some guy”

 

“oh, sorry, my turn

no, nothing else

how much?

I think I have the change

thanks

you too, have a nice day”

 

I can’t even feel the thread

As it pulls on through

 

strangers

 

© Ron Simpson Jr.

December 12, 2020