A person whose life you’re curious about

Sometimes I wonder about front porch sitters and the previous owners of GoodWill sweaters.
I wonder if they wonder about me–
The car that drives by too slowly because I like to see things that aren’t blurred by speed,
The stranger walking down the street with their name on my back.
I wonder if other people are wanderers like me.
Like how my head can be in so many places at once.
Like how my thoughts fill with so many words so much so that sometimes I don’t remember what my response was.
I had so many possible answers in my head…
I wonder if their physical presence keeps them from exploring even when they are sitting still.
I think about why they would be sad
Or what made them laugh last,
When they took a dump
Or combed their hair.
I wonder what kind of underwear they wear or what position they like in bed.
Not because I want to see it,
It’s just because I’m curious as to how other people function,
How they learn,
Why they learn,
Or what they are reading.
I can’t decide if I would want people to be reading about me so I have to be understanding that they won’t tell me their little secrets–
The little things they do when they’re in the car alone.
Or what songs they sing in the shower.
But sometimes I get furious when I can’t read them so I wonder about their wall.
Exactly how tall have they built it?
Is it stacked with broken years full of fallen tears robbed by another’s fingers?
Or moments of misery made easy with some self deceptive trickery.
I wonder when it started and how long they plan to keep it.
What can knock them down and what keeps them going.
I end up knowing way too much about myself because I wonder so much about everybody else.
I answer by own questions just to feed my curiosity.
I wonder if there’s something wrong with me…

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