“Hi, it’s nice to meet you. What’s your name?”
“What do you do?”
“What are your plans?”
“Do you work?”
“Who are you?”
Who are you.
People ask me what my name is. They want to know who I am – what I do. Do I work? Will I go back to school? People ask what my name is. I tell them Abby. I tell them who I am – I have a job downtown, I’ll go back to school next year, I want to teach. People ask me who I am and that’s what I tell them, but what I want to tell them is this:
I look up at the stars and I don’t see just them, but my whole world. My pen meets my hand meets paper and suddenly I can do anything. I wish that love was an object so I could hand it out to the people who sit on sidewalks under blankets, or who have furrowed brows, or who walk too fast and miss the beautiful in between. I’m scared of time so sometimes I close my eyes and feel every sense I can so that everything slows down and maybe one day I can go back there to that same place. I want to tell them how I’m waiting on the whole world to turn upside down so that we could all walk on clouds and stars, or maybe we’d watch them fall like rain and for a second, or even a minute, we’d be dancing in a snow globe. I want them to know how I watch people walk by and think up a life for them that I hope they might be living… or how I hold onto handfuls of poetry like old candy wrappers in pockets.
People ask me who I am and I tell them I’m a girl with a job downtown.
People ask me who I am, I’m just not sure they really care to know.