A woman walks down the street.
It does not matter her name,
the color of her hair, her age,
or how she votes. What matters
is if you would go help her rise
when she trips and twists her ankle.
What matters is if you look openly
into her eyes when she is seeking yours.
What matters is if you see how she,
like you, is holding onto something dead
and has not quite yet managed to let
it go. There are cultures where people
greet each other, strangers and lovers,
by saying, I am the other you.
What matters is if, when you see the woman
walking on the street, you believe this is true.