I left at first light.
Packed my bags for the 23rd time.
(Or was it the 24th?
I've lost count.)
I went south,
To a sad little factory town
Where I spent part of my adolescence.
I thought it would be interesting to see if
The townies still remembered me.
If their booze-soaked brains had
Retained the memory of the strange
Little homeless girl with crooked hips.
I have changed quite a bit.
And I've just seen the medicine man,
He knows who I am.
I saw the fear in his eyes when he came in.
To him I am
A ghostly amalgam
Of memory and imagination.
A dream.
A nightmare.
Something he never thought he'd see again.
He walks right by me without a second glance.
I let him pass.
I only exist in the rear view.
Just a minor case of déjà vu.