strangers who don’t know that they made me smile

by Eliza Coco

In the vege shop carpark, sitting in her car,
a woman devours a whole cucumber
ravenously.

By the river with fishing rods
two boys run, maybe 8 years old, laughing and
unaccompanied.

Beside the road on Thursday morning,
a sister and brother dance wild and
voracious.

At a school gate without a smile or a word,
a dad extends a long and complex handshake –
harmonious.

On the bus, holding a toddler with sweated curls,
a mother listens to her son coo from the row behind,
entranced.

Through a park with bare feet on the grass,
a man in a suit walks in sunshine and
liberation.

Eliza Coco is a fourth generation inhabitant of Ōtautahi | Christchurch, New Zealand. Poetry is her primary coping mechanism to balance life’s calculation content, which can get off-kilter during her day job as an engineer. She believes that life comprises a series of pictures and writes to piece them together. Eliza shares her work frequently at local events as well as regularly posting on Substack.