The Lives of Strangers

Black square tabletops hover
Over splotchy sunlight on a tile floor.
Backs of strangers rest
Against dark wooden slats.

Conversations over laptops:
Late afternoon’s soft light falls
Past murmurs of chatter.
Headphone-hugged eardrums,
Showered by strains of the grinder’s grumbling,
Bend toward inky pages.

Sweet warmth wets silent lips
Quietly inhaling the scent of
Coffee,
Cheese soup,
And companionship.
One woman is an island
Filling her chest with the lives of strangers
On black satellites
In one softly lit constellation.