Staring At Strangers -

On the train, in the square, through rain-washed glass or summer air, I trace the maps of stranger-faces— each one a door to hidden places.

A furrowed brow, a bitten lip, a wedding ring’s faint silver slip. A child’s torn shoe, a soldier’s limp, a gaze that wanders, lost and dim. Staring at Strangers

Here’s a short poetic piece inspired by : "The Unseen Gallery" On the train, in the square, through rain-washed