How many hands
graze me in passing?
How many paws
find excuse to land
under guise
of guiding me aside,
or under ruse
of friendly greeting?
It’s as if the air
is as thick with hands
as it is with smoke.
The smoke clings to me,
pushes into my lungs,
while the hands take away,
stealing me in portions,
like a hundred passers-by
casually taking
one striped peppermint each
from a community dish.
No one takes it all,
just a little taste per person,
never knowing or caring
what, with group effort,
they will empty.