With Painted Words

The Same

by Arlene Antoinette

They say that we are all the same. Well,

all the same under the skin: muscle,

bones, veins, flesh, blood. I sit in my

favorite café on the corner of Lexington

and Third Avenue, stirring an over-priced

cup of coffee I will never finish drinking,

and study the faces of strangers passing by.

I search for something that will knock

that statement on its ass; something to prove

we are not the same, but even taking into

account the man standing across the street who's 

 wearing a hat made from tin foil and a full length

parker in 90-degree weather, I’ve got nothing.