A midnight scribble from my notebook:

I am becoming Nobody.

      If I step out of the game, the pieces will not fall
      like yellow plastic pawns clattering to the floor,
      checkered cardboard tearing down the middle like the red sea
      allowing them to pass.


      I will slip away,
      strip my soul of plastic,
      and realize that no one has noticed.

Is that so bad?

     Being Nobody makes it easy
     to laugh at the Somebodies, to throw pebbles at their windows
     and sing the siren song of change.
     Nobodies move like water between the cracks
     filling every shape until they are not enough
     and sink into the dirt.
     Somebodies clasp their corpses in iron boxes;
     even after death
     they hope to never change.

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