I still wonder about
the thoughts behind the little woman
sipping her organic soup from a plastic spoon
does she think about her youth
the violence of those bombs on the television
as they float through beautiful shapes
changing the scenery as they drop, drop drop
I still wonder about
the tired man out in the field
harvesting those beautiful blueberrries
only to have them squashed into juice
their virginity stolen as they are mixed with pomegranate
I still wonder about
the somber man behind his designer polo
has he ever loved someone so much that it broke
does she still hold the broken pieces
forbidding him to smile without her approval
I still wonder about
whether or not anyone would ask
to join me if this place became too full
what conversation could too perfect strangers have
there’s talk of the weather, the bright blue out the window
of things in the good old days — cartoons for me
and possibly Sacramento freedom for them
And I still wonder about
the pecking order of this human society
whom among us should get more respect
the woman with her wrinkles and plastic spoon
the immigrant trying to improve life for his family
the man behind his seventy-five dollar shirt
or the perfect stranger waiting to join me.