Leaving my finger prints wherever I go,
marks being left.
Maybe someday when I'm great
all the walls, stairwells, trees, doors
will whisper of me.
Of the time my prints grasped theirs and for a moment
they were support.
One day, I'll trace back
all the places my prints have been, touched.
To the statue, to the muddy banks of the Mississippi.
To the Unique Marker Yacht Club, to the Gulf.
On a ship or on a plane.
My hands themselves have told of my existence.