the lone (wo)man
the flake on which
Whoville stands.
I am the drifter,
one kicked up like dust
that when settled on glass
protects vision's trust.
I am the drifter
the renegade bag
who tears from backseats
finding bushes that snag.
I am the drifter,
the one who knows
many
and few
and this person
who is my own.
I am the drifter
looking over the moor
swaying with lantern
as I rest these oars.
I am the drifter
the dried and the wet--
the leaves and grass clipping,
the petal that went.
I know no one location--
no one home for eye--
a steady comfort of constant supply,
seeking families far and near to enter in
to laugh, be filled, depart, and return
to enter in.
the one who holds, but lets grasp slip
who some call by name
and even fewer miss.
the one who catches glance before running past
whom with moments you share
that may or may not last.
I am the drifter
who seeks to be seen
and also to hide--
hold and deny
O, the drifter,
am I?
