Identity Moratorium
I’m the cashier at the store.

I’m the janitor mopping the floor.

I’m the passenger in that wreck.

I’m the victim with bruises on her neck.

I’m the flagger in the construction zone.

I’m the banker who approves that loan.

I’m the homeless man holding cardboard signs.

I’m the meter maid leaving fines.

I’m the barista serving tea.

I’m the addict who O.D.’ed.

I’m the old man in the ambulance.

I’m the photographer at the dance.

I’m the stripper at the club.

I’m the bartender at the pub.

I’m the waitress at the inn.

I’m the doctor delivering twins.

I’m the college student with midterms.

I’m the lawyer at the law firm.

I’m the kid at the laundry mat playing in a basket.

I’m the corpse from the morgue laying in a casket.

I’m that face you see passing by.

I’m that face who never says “hi.”

I’m that ghost you feel passing through

because I very well could be you.

​Identity Moratorium