I am here—
at the corner bus stop,
I fold the same receipt
into smaller and smaller squares,
as though careful hands
might make the numbers
hurt less.
I am here.
A man checks his watch.
A child tugs at a sleeve.
Someone drops a dollar
without looking at my face.
I smile anyway—
not for the dollar,
but for the second
someone saw I was there.
I am here.
I thank the waitress
for calling me by name
as she sets down my coffee.
It has been three days
since anyone else
remembered
I had one.
I am here…
Your eyes crossed my face
like sunlight across a wall—
and to you,
I was never there.