Some of us are lucky.

We see ourselves in the faces that look back at us.

We are not strangers.

Some of us are lucky.

The stars of us belong in constellation.

We are not strangers.

Some of us are lucky.

We feel the warmth of our connection.

Its comfort is not worn thin by wariness.

We are not strangers.

Some of us are not so lucky.

Our cry is a wolf’s cry in a chorus of bleating.

We are strangers.

Some of us are not so lucky.

We recognize ourselves in people we have never met

and places we have never been to.

We are strangers.

Some of us are not so lucky.

The pith of connection fails us

again and again

As inconsistent and as short lived as a dream.

We are strangers.

We are strangers in this world.