“Zombie Thomas”

By Thomas Page

I can’t help myself whenever I hear people taking

Because it normally is too good to pass up.

People love to have private conversations

Loudly in public for all to hear.

Like a groundling,

I fervently pretend to not listen to passing moments

Which I will never encounter again.

 

I heard someone call another “Zombie Thomas”

In a bookstore at the mall.

Hearing my own name,

Of course,

Causes me to look up and immediately identify this person

Who shares my name and,

Therefore,

Some sort of share in our grand idea of “Thomas.”

I caught a glimpse of this Thomas,

One of the many thomae americani,

Who earned the moniker zombie.

I’ve noticed that there is a certain look Belonging to Thomases

At least in my time.

Like most,

Zombie Thomas is bearded

With a tint of Nordic red

And Saxon brown.

He also wore a blue shirt,

The apparent color of that name,

And the beigey-brown pants

Which we have all decided

Is work-appropriate.

Like some,

Zombie Thomas

Was built like a redwood.

In my experience,

Thomases are either very slender or very not.

This also may just be an American thing.

 

But who knows.

He and his coworker were mulling around the store

Having a loud conversation about the things we all say on a daily basis,

So nothing especially extraordinary.

But

They were saying this loudly—

One from the escalator

And Thomas right in front of me

About the goings-on of the bookstore.

This happened at least thrice

So that it was etched in my head

That they liked to catch up by the escalator.

Zombie Thomas,

I noticed,

Also liked to wander around the store

And make recommendations

Or comments to patrons.

This sealed his image because I was now fully-aware of him.

It’s strange when a stranger changes

As if a magician

Into something more familiar

While retaining the same foreignness as before—

The people who somehow catch your attention Like flypaper

But nothing else—

People who accidentally make eye contact on the train

Or the animated conversationalist a booth over

Or the brash person behind the wheel rushing on by—

Those who are for a moment

Connected.