A Poet's Fodder
We live among them
checking their blood pressures,
appraising their homes,
sliding their groceries over
plates of glass, and they let
themselves believe this is all we are, like our lives stop
when they can no longer see us,
even as we study them, jot
notes when they leave,
scribble verse on breaks,
even as we fill our note
books with their descriptions
and our imaginations with
things they may never do, even as
we fail to imagine
they may be taking notes
on us, submitting poems to the same
journals, publishing
on the same pages, where we are
recognizable to each other
only as metaphor and imagery
and the handshake we shared
at the hardware store.