I haunt the city in the day time, walking through the weekend crowd. Rubbing shoulders with the busy, busy living people living their busy,busy lives.
They look into their purses for money to pay for the groceries they’re buying, they’re sitting around the food court tables laughing over their sandwiches and sushi. They are looking into their bags, searching with their eyes for the train ticket that will bring them to their two o’clock appointment.
I have nowhere to go, and no one expecting me there.
You don’t see me. You don’t see me as I walk over to the half-finished food you have left on your food court tables. You don’t see me as I grab hungrily at the remains of your lunch; the thought of tasting a stranger’s saliva overpowered by the gnawing hunger in my stomach.
I wander the library halls and use their toilets. This is the only warm place that will let me in. The security guards catch me sleeping in there and tell me off. I look at them emptily, as they weren't up the whole night shivering in the cold.
I come out occasionally to scare the living. I lift my voice and ask if you have some change to spare, or five dollars for a pack of cigarettes. You do not hear me, you do not see me, but you are afraid of me, and your feet walk a little faster.
I am already dead. You just don’t know it yet.
(observations on a Saturday afternoon at the State Library)
