POSERS

Outside the bookstore in downtown Seattle

we huddle away from the rain. Two days

out of the mountains and looking to hitchhike

a ride down to Plain. Scrape a few dollars together

for food. Cars move quietly over the road.

Rain beats down on the blue plastic awning

we’ve jimmy-rigged over our heads. There are

three of us asking for spare change and handouts.

Night falling slowly away from the stores.

The girl named Saturday plays the guitar.

My brother and I sing softly along, working

to keep us in key. We look bedraggled and crazy.

We stagger and weave in the limited range

of the tarp. I think to myself I am not this

hungry. I am not this desperate for any

clean thing. I am only a few more weeks

on the west coast. Living off food stamps,

volunteer work at the Bellingham food shelf.

Squandering yogurt and leftover bread from

the Trader Joe’s dumpster on First. I say I am

working to make myself better. Learning

the rhythm and speed of my heart. The same

three chords and the harmony failing. Nodding

along to the sound of my brother’s voice.

Trying out the words in my own mouth until

I am finally able to sing.