Stranger

She looked at me like

I was infested with

some horror from

her childhood.

I was some sort of

abomination from

ancient history that

didn’t deserve the

seat next to her.

Her face was a

ghastly portrait of

how not to look at

people.

She was disappointed.

She was upset.

She was boring.    

I seem to get that

look a lot. Even from

the faces that I know.

I sat and flipped through

the paper and tried not

to be hurt. Her face, her

pretty, evil face bothered me.

I’m too old and tired

to let that face get to me

on the train

in the morning

on a Friday.

It’s just another person

I’ll never know, who’ll

never know me

and it’ll never make

more noise than this

poem.