And there are billions
Of little me’s
Looking in, judging,
Seeing how I relate
To them.
Do I provide
A story they can steal,
That has what they need
To tell about themselves,
Like an offering of bread?
Or will they, seeing
My kind, knowing eyes,
Want to talk to me themselves,
Share their stories, dreams and
Overheard facts and data?
I can’t see how
The me that’s here
Cannot but be dissolved
By the me out there.
Will they keep me
Next to their hearts
Like a long-lost amour
Or a campaign pin?
Will they quote me
As an authority
Or as a soft place
To help others land?
Will they take my name in vain
When toiling in the fields
And growing every moment
More angry at the commands?
It seems, in contrast,
My lot is to be ignored,
As if I am a scraping leaf,
Nothing in it for them
Of use,
Except perhaps
For maybe a poem,
About the words that
Seem to come forth
From the trees.
