Strangers

      The following poem was written in response to a prompt from the blog One Single Impression and the lovely Jingle for Monday's Potluck at Jingle Poetry.

Sticky graham cracker crumbs

decorate the boy's round face

and he reaches inside his overalls

to stash some for later, presumably.

A redhead.

He looks mischievious enough to be a "Dylan"

or possibly an "Oliver"--the angelic smile

and intrusiveness as he grabs

the laces of my worn out Nikes

and pulls.

A lethargic woman in an a juice-stained dress

bends to scold.

Not red.

A mother? (No, she seems too patient)

A caregiver, maybe?

Her disheveled head lifts toward me

she gives me an apologetic shrug

While her fingers dig in her knock-off clutch

for a quick ransom

Upon delivering a dented Matchbox car

she purrs in his ear,

"We don't play with stranger's shoes..."

Strands of hair have come loose from her ponytail

and encircle her face like a halo,

floating independently of one another

revealing maternal haste and practicality

Averting my eyes politely, 

I stare at the graham cracker shape

left on the carpeted floor.

An awkward silence.

I become acutely aware of the sound

of sighing and wheezing from one of them

(Leftover from a winter cold, perhaps?) 

The blinking numbers rise steadily.

After a brief pause,

our trio is saved by the "ding" of the bell.

I step out of the elevator

into reality

While marveling at humanity's complex nature

And curious interactions

with red-headed boys

I will never know their names.