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.