Diana Darby ** "I V" ** Intravenous

Identity Crisis

You would not recognize me
watching the pigeons return.
The shade of blackness
blended
in mirrors of washrooms
and smoke.
I speak
in a murmur
of accidents,
confessing who I am
like some hired assassin.
Always
missing the bus.
Standing in my corner
groping for the light.
Who am I?
You ask.
Does it matter?
I am all names
and none.