I Don't Know You. You Don't Know Me.
A couple, holding hands while hitch-hiking their way
through the evening autumn sunshine.
She carries a well-fed puppy in her backpack.
I want to pick them up, take them to dinner,
ask them how they've spent their day.
I'm stable,
with the job
and responsibilities.
I'm tied down with plenty of roots
but connected to nothing.
They are full.
I can see it in their eyes.
They don't know where they will be sleeping tonight,
but they will be together
probably under stars.
The rest of us drive by them,
in vehicles that own us,
rushing home to big houses,
with big, lush, pillow-top mattresses,
where night after night,
we pile up our empty shells.
