In the poem
we have not spoken yet
I am sitting in a park bench,
and you sit down
next to me, you look at me.
just a friendly glance
your eyes warm and green
I could read them,
you were hoping I
wouldn't mind you sitting there
and truth is I didn't -
you must have felt that
you get lost in that
book you are holding,
everything and nothing
comes to my mind
..you're reading poetry
I wonder what brought you
there, who you were missing
or if there was anyone waiting
for you back home
I look at you again..
the book, Garcia Marquez,
it suddenly hit me that
you were probably
here a decade and something
before me
and again, I did not mind.
you are marquez, coelho, neruda
and silverstein
while i am waheed, harris, patterson and shire.
different space and different
names but we are one and the same.
