If I were invisible, I might want to inhabit
the privacies of certain rooms, hang around
before the bank closed, linger in a shower stall
until you disrobed. I could easily leave
any scene unseen. But where to go? And would
you dare join me, become my conspicuous one?
I’d be the slippery criminal, you the accomplice
they’d catch with the goods. A song might begin,
sad, unmelodious, ours. It would say how unfair
the world could be to those who couldn’t hide.
It would say how lonely things can be
for those who can’t be seen. I’d no doubt start
to see the invisible everywhere—
walking the streets, sitting with others at meetings
and meals, spoken through, around, not to.
The song takes on grit, hurts the both of us,
but with luck I think I’ll forever hear it,
evidence of a privilege I’d no longer want.