reflecting on isolation and Bradd

I do not know Bradd Howard
or the beer he chooses
everytime he sidles up to the bar

his coat
or the shoes he wears

the coarseness of his skin
on Tuesday's when he does not shave

I do not know the wetness of his tongue
when he kisses
or the hairs skattered down his shins.

every day from birth
til now
is a mystery to me.

Each breath a puzzle
unriddled and insoluble.

Bradd Howard does not know me,
the scar upon my left wrist,
the freckle on my right ankle,
or the ends of my hair -- split
and ready for the barbar.

We have stacked between us
thousands of miles
and a million moments unshared.

Isn't that just like a man?