A poem for strangers

Due to my somewhat unusual height, I tend to see the underside of desks and tables a lot more than most people do. While it is almost invariably an unpleasant experience to turn one's gaze upwards towards the clammy crowded mass of dried chewing gum, I had the luck today to come across a little bit of poetry somewhat had scribbled on the underside of a study table. Since I was already in the job of prying things off the underside of that particular table, I decided to take this one off too, and transfer it to the big wide world that is our internet.

This one was titled: "A poem for strangers."

I walk as I always have; head down, feet in front,
purposefully examining my shoes as I make my way through strangers.
What a tumult they are making, to their friends, to their phones, to the ones whose names have meaning!
Their faces have no names to me.

I walk as I am accustomed to; hands in my jacket, arms clutching objects, maybe a splay of fingers gripping two,
My focus is on the floor, hoping that I may pass unnoticed in this sea of strangers, knowing that I will and feeling small.
There is no ocean spray that lowers my hood as they do, no cold wind that does not turn my face as words between these nameless faces.

Perhaps that are not all happy, perhaps there are some like me; whose eyes are swimming for a shore of open space in all the comradie.
Perhaps they wonder at my jacket, at my hood and parcels, at my hurried furtive feet,
they wonder what my story is and who I hope to meet.

Maybe they are accustomed to pondering, speculating like me,
if all these bywords will make sense, if these faces can be friends, if names uttered, chattered, whispered, will give meaning and direction to my feet.