The Stranger Poem by Mona Lisa Aspiras

He comes almost every Sunday
We, my parents and I, drop
by Barnes and Noble bookstore after Mass, and there he is,
in the cafe',
working with his tablet laptop,
with a stack of papers by his side,
possibly correcting or researching said papers.
So he sits there, his tall, lanky body barely fitting in the chair, side-wise,
legs crossed elegantly,
like a prince.
So we usually, for some or no reason at all,
as if by magical design,
gravitate to a table next to his,
and sip our coffees and eat our scones,
our bagels with cream cheese, and blueberry muffins.
Mommy grabs some magazine and skims the articles. Daddy cracks jokes, concocts clever puns,
and the three of us engage in idle chatter.
And I look up surreptitiously.
Drawn by curiosity, vague dreams of sweet promise, fantasies fluttering in my head like butterflies,
I throw him a glance or two.
And oh, is he aware. Or is he.
He has a radar mind.
It picks up my waves of butterfly flutter-wishes.
But the question is, does he like it? He does not smile.
But something deep down in me pulls at my heart. It nags me, and thus this game
I dare to play with him.
A one-sided game.
A one-sided conversation.

He sometimes, or actually most of the time,
jooks as cold as a corpse.
Pasty white skin, pale blue eyes and blonde hair.
Another time, this time defined by Daddy,
he is a squid.
Probably because of his transparent skin.
Most of the time, he looks like a loner snob.
Just like me.

But just like me, he hides a secret.
What is the secret?
That secret is a warm, compassionate heart,
a high-flying passion, a burning idealism.
But then again the question is, for what.
Is he a mirror reflection of me?
A twin flame who like a moth,
sought out the flame of his counterpart.

Other times he looks like the Angel of Death,
What with his height, pale skin and hollow eyes.
But then again, death has unfortunately
always had that certain type of glamour.

He probably has been sent by God
(as usual thank you God
for being with,
and thinking of me)
at this juncture in my life,
but to show, or do, what -
I don't know.
Maybe this Stranger just accompanies me.

He just is there with me.
Appeared, and appears, and will appear?
Maybe at the right time.
When he will disappear, I don't know.

And the sad thing is that he doesn't know that
I think of him.
Or rather, he knows.
But he probably doesn't care.