Friday, May 15, 2009

Not There

Sometimes at dusk
I drive a car
nobody knows I own
on a road nobody knows I drive.
(You can imagine my horror
when I see some body else
I know driving a car I don't
on the same road.
Usually I hide behind
the wheel and they're so busy
looking forward
they don't notice me.)
I look into the houses I drive by
with the lights on
in their sad
and perfect inscrutability, damp beams
through brown
lampshade blinds.
I insert my face on
the fireplace mantle,
that odd shelf, my face
into the pictures of the family,
play fetch with their old and
neglected dog,
eat the leftovers.
Nobody notices when I close the window
to the summer rain
or crack the moon open
and pour out the glass inside
(that's why it shines),
nobody says thank you
when I take out the trash, it's like
I'm not even there.

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