I sit in the shadows,
in a far corner,
alone.
All around me
I see my friends,
and a fog seems to pass between them and me.
They are in little groups.
I hear them:
talking, whispering, laughing.
So I say to them,
"Hey, people, I'm over here."
No one hears.
Next to me
on the hard, sweating floor,
is a number of letters I have written.
As I look at them they multiply,
and spread across my legs
as if to hold me.
I call out,
"Hey, people... I'm over here!"
They continue to talk, whisper, laugh.
Next to the letters
on the rough, splintered floor,
is my typewriter.
I look at it --
the keys form a smile;
then it starts to laugh.
I cry out,
"Hey people! I'm over here!"
No one listens.
Back along the wall,
deeper into the shadows,
is my post office box.
I go over to it
and open the door.
It's dark inside,
empty and dusty.
I turn back to the crowded room,
and I call out,
almost desperately,
"Hey, people? Here I am,-- over here..."
But they don't hear me.
I crawl into the box and close the door behind me.

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Copyright©2017-1999 by Rebecca R. Hammack

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