It’s always about distance. We’re
bonding over fears of loss. Hope
strikes joyful, like a lottery ticket
in a back pocket, washed, wishing
for thunder, lightning, and a bag of
sherbet lemons to share. We hold
hands across the time zones of life
and death. It’s always about distance.
Ask commuters on a rush hour train,
the irksome clutter in their minds,
their rattled nerves, the cold sweat
drizzling down their necks – their
presence undiluted, incompatible
souls travelling together. The wrong
kind of close, unlike us, in different
worlds. It’s never about distance.