I get lost in crowds. If I can, I remain invisible
To the hungry mouths. I stay unapproachable.
I wear the landscape of the urban chameleon,
Scarred by attention, and quietly addicted to innocence.

At starry parties where, amongst the rich and the famous,
I'm stuck for words--or worse, I blether with the best of them.
I see their eyes glaze, and they look for the drinks tray.
Something in the drift of my conversation bothers them.

So who am I? Come on, ask me. I dare you.
So who am I? Come on, question me, if you care to.
And why not try to interrogate this apparition?
I melt away, to get lost in this quaint condition.

In scary airports, in concourses over-filled,
I am detached in serious observation.
As a passenger, I become untethered when
I get lost in clouds, at home with my own quiet company.

Herald Tribune or USA Today. Sauvignon Blanc or oaky Chardonnay.
Asleep for the movie; awake for the dawn
Dancing on England and hedgerows, embossed on a carpet of green.
I descend, and--forgive me--I mean to get lost in crowds.

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