of the lady who's at the bus stop each morning with the same inscrutable expressions. she
never would smile at you. but you look out for her. still. each day.

the cleaning help you've never met. but you know with the crease in the linens she's been
there, the same lady.

its the supermarket you visit every then and now. and you see the security guard's a different
fellow. and you wonder where the other chap went. and you keep looking out for him each time
you pop in now.

you know when it's another boy delivering the morning paper if there's an extra fold in the
paper, and you frown at that.

they're the two dirty dogs, stray who come almost as close each morning. and you avoid them
and yet you look for them if they're not there, trying to pounce on you.

you look into the hairdressers who opens real early each day when you walk to work. the only
shop open in the high street at the hour. and you look in each day.

there are cracks in the wall that don't always upset. never mind if they show even after the
walls are freshly painted. they smell of home.

the apparently insignificant bits that waltz into your daily schema. and stay. and become
fixtures, so much so that there absence makes you feel like you've lost your favorite
something, or didn't meet the nice someone.

where life is a rush and ghosts linger under your bed;
where too much noise and silent screams fight for the same prize;
where parasites and pests attack for your attention;
where no change and too much of change are at tug-o-war -
it's the insignificant dailies that in a way connect as disassociated figments and offer
familiarity in a strange lonely world..