MEAN BUSINESS
We meet. But only almost. A street.We fail to greet, these short years on.Instead your eyes flare panic. DisarmedAlarmed, sensing some vague harmThis passing stranger brings, you striveTo place the ghost that spectres someNagging ache you thought you'd shedFrom some discomfiting past. Connection missedRelieved you choose the pavement’s vacant gazeFor comfort, embrace the welcome solaceOf the nameless passer by, a passing momentPassed; the past survived.
