I’m slowly losing track of who I was.
The other day it hit me:
somewhere there’s a body running
around with my name on it,
leading a committee probably or picking
fruit from a scissor lift or counting
inventory on aisle 5. Giving
directions to strangers from
the street corners of cities
whose names won’t mean anything to
you or I, or anyone living for that matter.
Just laddy-dah, hands in his
pockets, whistlin’ away.
Friends with everyone.
Waving like a rube at every Tom, Dick, and Harriet.
I should probably check in
and see how he’s making out,
but the thing is…
I mentioned this to Hafiz,
and he just snorted and said
you know, you really, really can go for
five minutes without checking
in on yourself. I promise you.
Well if you put it like that, I said.