Anonymous

I read the notes left in the margins
Of books left on tables next to mine.
I hold mugs of tea long after the owners
Have drunk them, looking for the heat
Of their hands. I often barge in
To rooms when singers have just left
And breathe the note, the beat.
I park in spots that shoppers vacate
And wonder what they bought, what
They saw, what they ate. I sometimes
Stand in line where children stood
Scuffing their feet, itching, pulling
At hands that rein them in, and wonder
Who are the wonderers who inhabit
My skin.

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