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Passing Through

by
 Nobody in the widow's household
ever celebrated anniversaries.
In the secrecy of my room I would not admit I cared that my friends were given parties.
Before I left town for school my birthday went up in smoke in a fire at City Hall that gutted the Department of Vital Statistics.
If it weren't for a census report of a five-year-old White Male sharing my mother's address at the Green Street tenement in Worcester I'd have no documentary proof that I exist.
You are the first, my dear, to bully me into these festive occasions.
Sometimes, you say, I wear an abstracted look that drives you up the wall, as though it signified distress or disaffection.
Don't take it so to heart.
Maybe I enjoy not-being as much as being who I am.
Maybe it's time for me to practice growing old.
The way I look at it, I'm passing through a phase: gradually I'm changing to a word.
Whatever you choose to claim of me is always yours: nothing is truly mine except my name.
I only borrowed this dust.

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