two weeks later
another morning not quite so soft,
i had my same perch--
though my eyes given to pages
telling of crosses:
people and losses.
a woman walks in alone
with a flyer for a found dog.
not particularly striking,
her small moment in the cafe
blows simply away--
outside a smile to the passing old man,
through the glass i saw this all.
as one barista quips the trash,
another allows for slight hope--
though the paper set with all the day's sections,
won't last through tomorrow's edition.
my reading halts,
and i can't get past this scene.
it was the smile at the end;
something in her eyes--
let through from far below.
or maybe it was the simple act of kindness,
trying to return a beloved pet
where so many others had just driven on.
i catch myself romanticizing the scenario--
making this woman lonely and tragic,
so kind and caring
and perhaps my storytelling does her a disservice;
perhaps she is quite happy and loved.
i don't really know.
so why does my intuition so strongly disagree?
how can so much be caught in just an instant
and thousands of unseen memories?
can we be seen in only a moment?
or are those just illusions
until we are one day completely known?
can the eyes truly tell so much?
the soul's jalousie
or our programmed tv?