BIRTH DAY
 

And arrives where all are strangers, all
are kind. He thinks, We are familiar, surely,
since they are kind, and yet seem strangers
 --- or I am someone other than I think,
myself the only stranger.
                          They come close
now with smiles and offerings, with large
sounds, with faces luminous and vague,
with gestures inviting one to sit down,
to dine, to take one's ease, to stay
among them or, if one chooses, to leave
in peace, but later, later on. He thinks it
endlessly, teasingly perplexing; he asks,
Whom do they find so lovable? Someone
they are awaiting? Am I that person?
And believes himself an impostor
imposing, a grabber of gifts intended
for others, but senses afterward
how impersonal their kindness, how
profound their courtesy, that they should
have greeted him as brightly had he been
any other.
           This is reposeful, a final
kindness, a tact, not to require response
and answers. If there was another life,
he hardly remembers it now, or if
he came this way on a particular
errand, and cannot declare for certain
this is the place he started for.
His gestures mean to say, No matter,
I will not oppose your kindness or stay
estranged or go away from you ever.