I've a natural-born talent
for not being noticed, a gift
to be invisible.
. . .























. . .
Like a building, I know things
like who's the cop in a crowd.
You don't play undercover with me.

But to feel like a fact in their city.
. . .























. . .
Playing red-light green-light,
I lose to the city
even to the plaster people--
statues that mock me
from the middle of the bus station.

Tourists notice.
Their stares make those ghosts real,
so they win.

I'll practice till I'm statue.
. . .























. . .
"Just the facts, ma'm"
remember, he always talked to women like that
like they were wooden Indians,
or they'd confuse the facts
in their bag with keys

that guy on TV
sergeant Friday who was somebody
every day of the week.

A fact clanging all over town.

To be chased or even chosen last
maybe one day of the week.
I work.
I work hard at pretending
to be alive.