Years ago
I sought the company
Of strangers

I traveled far and light
To listen to strangers,
Then walk away

I liked their stories
Liked listening
Without commitment
Without promises
Without need

One, an old Argentinian
Staying at a youth hostel
In Switzerland,
Tried to sell me a fur coat.

I played with him as he
Tried to play me.

Usted tiene una cara como una cura,
He said,
Drawing out each syllable
As if it were a kiss
I should desire.

I laughed
And let him go on
With his beautiful Spanish
Until I had enough:

No quiero esa cosa.
Gracias.

I laughed.
I knew
He and I played
Differently.
The coat was nothing new.

He stood with his
Merchandise:
Tu eres el flor del diablo.
He marched away

And let me fall
From grace.

Such things happen
Among strangers.

When I saw this week’s prompt, I went straight to my favorite resource, the Etymology Dictionary. When I searched “stranger,” the definition “guest, enemy” came up. So did “host (3),” meaning “body of Christ, consecrated bread.” Naturally, I had to look at the other definitions of host. I found the expected—a “person who receives guests”—and the less obvious “animal or plant having a parasite.” I was struck by the blend of kindness (guest), malice (enemy), mystery (body of Christ), and science (animal or plant with a parasite) in this. The definitions took me way beyond my personal definition of stranger as someone I don’t know.

So I struggled with this one until I decided to stick with what I knew and sprinkle it with a little kindness, malice, mystery, and science. The story of this poem is biographical. This was a moment in my life in the late 1980s when my favorite form of adventure was talking to strangers. I had the best of times.

Shortly after losing the attention of this strange Argentinian, I fell into conversation with a recently college graduated Californian boy whose goal in life was to start a fast food franchise that would sell healthy junk. His name was Stewart. He made me laugh, too.

One Single Impression