The Invisible Man

So many hours
of my anxious youth
were wasted
hoping that someone would
see me.

It was nerve wracking,
all that prep work
all that rehearsal.

A calculated appearance
and rarely the payoff
of a glance
or someone’s laughter
would come my way.

Now that I’m older
and there isn't anyone
to impress anymore,

I value my anonymity,
taking pains to dress down
not making eye contact
not saying anything,

because the anonymity
is as close as I can get to
invisibility:

I watch, study
all the grasping and yearning
specimens
in their vainglorious dance
-- what are they wearing?
-- why did they pick that tattoo?
-- how many warts bumps and boils
can the human neck suffer?

I smile,
content that
I don’t desire
an audience anymore,

as I slip
though the crowd,
stealth and unnoticed,
I convince myself
that I truly am
invisible

and maybe I’m
the only person here
who is truly alive.