Everybody’s stranded.
I can see it in their tired eyes.
When they are about to leave the bars and clubs –
late at night, almost in the morning.
After they’ve slipped into their coats and jackets,
slightly strangled themselves with their scarves –
knowing they got to get back into the cold;
knowing they got to get back to their lifes on hold.
When they turn around and look right into my eyes
it’s like a bitter cry.
A yearning –
as if they feel I might understand,
or as if I might know and have –
their safe word at hand.
But I am not that much.
I am neither help nor emergency call,
since I am –
likewise,
just stranded too,
like them all.