I imagine myself as anyone.
I could be a single mother pushing
a stroller with one hand,
headed toward Lake Champlain
to find at least some solace
in the way the thin veil of light
hopscotches off the water.
I could be an old pianist, fingers
long-tired from lightly moving across
the keys, ears perked relentlessly,
for melodies in the wind
and overheard conversations.
I could be a college student,
explorin the new city I call home,
ignoring my sudden-onset insomnia
and the rows of missed phone calls
Or I could be just another teenager,
confidently placing each foot in front
of the other, chattering to a friend about
how my driving lessons are going.
("You know, it's not even that bad. If I had
to describe it, I'd say mild road rage.