The stranger

He is a stranger who shares my name. He asks me for some smokes. He doesn’t look at my face. Instead, he looks nowhere. “I am sorry friend, I can’t help you,” I say. But the stranger, he can help me. And he does. Lethargic by the presence of many drugs, shaken by the absence of so many others. The stranger who shares my name carries my bag. He will ask for something else, I am sure. He doesn’t. The stranger who shares my name says nothing. He leaves the luggage on the floor and the floor under my lonely feet.