One day in a randomly appointed month
I became invisible. No one warned me.
My siblings, no. My in-laws, hell no.
Certainly not my smugly smiling colleagues.
They started talking about me like I wasn’t there.
I suddenly felt like I wasn’t anywhere. Invisible.
Girls now brushed past me when I held the door.
I guess I wasn’t a prospect anymore. Just invisible.
Those yappy little dogs,
weird breeds that flounce and prance,
stopped barking at me.
Can invisibility be good, by chance?
Delivery men stopped asking directions.
My cat stopped seeking my affections.
My children don’t see me.
I’m not a meme or an app.
Nor do they hear the gray-haired guy in the baseball cap,
that crazy old fool.
No, their ear buds rule.
Since I’m already invisible,
I may take leave of them all.
Vanish into thin air. But where?
Go to Vermont this fall?
Never write, never call?
I may be invisible, but will they miss me?
“Hey, there’s a place at the table, it’s empty!”
In taciturn New England, I’ll have a ball.
They don’t care a whit. Anyone can fit.
No need to keep up appearances.
No such folderol.
Image: Ben Schumacher, The Intern as Phantom Limb, 2012
Tempered glass, hardware, inkjet on perforated vinyl,
drain hair, rapid prototype, scanned seaweed, Chelsea Market
65 x 97 x 15 inches 2017