The Stranger Poem by KATOCH P C K PREM

The Stranger

I did not know the man
he just sat next to me
and looked blank but asked questions
and I tried to figure out
what he wanted and why he seemed
quite uncertain and vaguely positive.

You know journey is in fact long
it does not end in time
and you meet and run into oblivion
and still want eternity to engrave
the name you did not even mean.

I heard and scratched the head
gray and partially bald and he laughed.
He put palm on the hairless skull
I feel the roughness
I am uneasy and abuse the man within
it is not correct rather unethical
perhaps wrong I say he makes adjustment.

the bus halts with a wrench
he gets up, ignites a cigar, picks up
the rags and the plastic bag
and gets down
I sit quietly and fail to react.

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