Shifting, twisting, spinning I whirl to see
	who has called my name.
	No one there.
	Not a single face.
	No one
	I recognize in the crowd
	I can rely on,
	seek shelter in,
	steal from without
	condemnation, borrow
	a dime to call my dying mother.
	A cluster of faces.
	Chatter of foot steps on the sidewalk.
	Untouching collisions of bodies with deliberate
	velocities in anarchistic rhythm stream with rude grace.
	And I stand still in the midst
	searching, causing the flow to compensate for my contrariety. Me
	the rock in the river,
	the stutter in the speech,
	the tasteless joke at the party. I
	have been called to halt and heed
	directly to a voice that has not shown itself
	but deceptively grabbed me by the shoulder.
	Now I stand alone desperately looking for the one
	who bid me hello. I responded quickly as I could
	and found no one but the throng.
	It is I who was requested and
	it is I who seeks company.
	Befuddled and disappointed I
	resume my course
	reassuming the step of nobody.
Copyright 1997 John Feissel. All rights reserved.