SONG OF MYSELF

I stand here
on the long line of myself
waiting.

I am the bank
that has heard a rumor
that it is failing.

I dress quickly
and run down the streets;
overrun my location,
come back,
and stand
in the long line.

Do the others, who
do not speak to me -- they
do not say a word -- know
who I am?

They wait,
their faces as blank
as I know mine to be.

Overhead: a black sky,
eyeless with anxiety.

Through the large window
I see a mirror
which reflects nothing.

And I stand here
on this long line of myself,
waiting
in front of a window
that shows nothing
except a mirror
that reflects nothing,
grateful
that my long line
has not moved forward
to expose me.