An ex girlfriend, a soft lover of mine who loves penguins
and long, hot days of embalming sunlotioned blitheness
called me to say she saw a man of eerily similar build to me,
with a face that stopped her steps for a breath or two
I pondered this coincidence, missing the feel of sand
sticking to the moist, lotion wet cracks of my hands
but could find no purpose to her encounter or call
It was, like all of our words and touches and deceptions,
merely an act of neutrality, neither creating or destroying
life in this finely balanced ecosphere we play within,
oblivious to both our might and impotency, in equal doses

Days later, a friend clarified the point for me
Perhaps, he said, there’s just so many faces to go around