Anonymous

no one knows who
i am, no photos
of me on a
screen, where i might
look wealthy or important
wearing a suit, standing
serious, ready to buy

or sell something, or
convince you that i
am indeed successful,
i walk, don’t drive
a tesla, or anything,
and therefore you might
not know me and

how i sometimes just
stare at trees and
how that is just
fine, good enough to
breathe and watch you
in wonder, trying so
hard to be somebody

Pontiac

my daughter already talks about the
car she wants an Audi, new, shiny
that her friends will admire like
her iPhone with apps that take
wrinkles out of faces in photos

I tell her about my maroon
dented station wagon, Pontiac
1986 Michigan-made to barely
last past puberty

I parked it with pride
my piece of remembering
that life is unreliable
always ready to
start then stop

blind to history my daughter
will never know the struggle of
driving a car that quit, gave up

for her they don’t exist
like rotary phones
like an indigenous name
turned into painted steel

Walking Into Walgreens

they usually know
what they want
the gum or
shiny People Magazine

others walk the
aisles, an activity
to pass the
time in fluorescent

lights, examine lipsticks
red and pink,
most days there
is a man

sometimes a woman
who sits out
front, any help?
it is both

question and statement
they are usually
ignored except for
those few who

drop quarters in
the old coffee
cup, thank you
they say, and

customers smile before
looking for cuticle
scissors or deodorant
to smell better

this is all
normal at Walgreens
in San Francisco
maybe other places