I will not watch your bag.

I will watch meandering passengers of all shapes and colors
passing me by with glazed confusion distorting the light of their eyes,
but I will not watch your bag.

I will sit here, talking to a friend, sounds of our synced laughter lost in the crowd,
lost among the cries of tired babies and complaining elders,
but I will not watch your bag.

I will drag my luggage up steps for some city-fresh air on 33rd Street,
and notice how the cabs have become almost comically small,
but I will not watch your bag.

I will hear an announcer warn, “If you see something, say something,”
and I will steal a suspicious glance your way,
but I will not watch your bag.

I will avert my eyes from the disheveled ones with hands out,
wondering what story got them to this begging place,
but I will not watch your bag.

I will watch a heron, in his blue majestic stance, grace the edge of a Jersey swamp,
and count the colors of the storage containers as we drift by,
but I will not watch your bag.

I will relish the private concert of my iPod on shuffle,
sounds of Natalie, Bocelli, Cash, Chapman and U2 until I doze,
but I will not watch your bag.

I will attempt to decipher the graffiti that almost passes as art on the metal fences,
and wonder how they appear, as I never see a spray can wielding culprit,
but I will not watch your bag.

I will write my run-on sentences, all day long, passing time on the Empire Service,
but my dear stranger, this world has me just skeptical enough to say…

I just can’t watch your bag.