Wednesday, June 29, 2011

A Poor Wayfaring Stranger

He asked for Samantha.
I could tell she held some significance
in the thoughts travelling through his veins
by the way he stuttered and stumbled
through the syllables of her name-
and quietly scuffed the welcome mat under his boots.
When I told him I did not know her,
that she did not live here-
I could feel the heartbreak,
I could feel the hope
sliding from his voice and
I felt a dry gust of sadness
realizing the red paint of my front door
was just another mirage
in his search for water.

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