You walk each day, your bangs
in the breeze,
eyes turned skyward,
books in your arms;

I watch you, alone in the world
at the bus stop,
cold in morning gusts,
bundled tight
against groping old men of the snow.

You are an ember.
A quiet one, faithful, contributing
heat in the company of large coals.
You die alone.

What are you? Who?
The answer comes on the cusp of a whisper,
and is forgotten. You find
yourself again, in the same place.

You sit with your hands on your forehead,
Wrestling with being.

You are your own jury, you,
who sit at the cafeteria tables, teasing
each other and absorbing
each other. You
who walk sweetly in the path of duty, assured
of your place in the world. I see you. I know you.

You are no stranger to me, when you bury your face in a screen
or, when you look ahead, eyes steeled against me,
a potential source of pain or rejection or
disappointment.

I am your companion.