Anthropology

We call it people watching, but what do you see?

For me,

It’s the couple at the café, the man who

once, 

twice, 

three times, 

       kisses his lover’s hand.

It’s the teens on the bus, 

obnoxious in every way they ought to be,

and the two sitting separate, butterflies circling as they share their favorite films.

It’s the lads singing Carly Simon in the airport.

You probably think this poem’s about you - and you’re right!

The flight taken by your laughter,

the way tears stream down your cheeks 

like rain on a steep road,

the way a hug can say so much 

more than anything I could ever write.

“I’m glad you’re here,” it whispers.

When your nose starts to burn, 

you should cry. 

Sob until your hands go numb.       (that happens to me, is that strange?)

Rake in each and every gasp like a whale,

Feel, if just to prove you still can, for that is a gift.

No weight of evil can crush that goodness.

Do your worst, I’ll echo Giles Corey.

Keep on seeing people.

Let your memory be a catalog of kindness,

enduring like stone, passed on through example. 

“I love you, text me when you land.”