Friday, May 16, 2014

I wrote The Invisible Man (Riding in Boxcars, 2006) about a person who drifted through our community with the regularity of a metronome. He was part of a sizeable population who have spent time at the State Hospital, but now live semi-independent lives in rooms and small apartments around Concord.
I would see him often looking in the windows of shops downtown. I asked him once what he was looking for and he replied “I’m looking for me”.
He was such a fixture in town that people no longer took notice of him in his droopy, worn pants, car coat and ash/brown beard. And I realized that he was truly worried that he had become invisible.
He passed away a few years ago, but if he were still alive today, I would tell him that I share his concerns.
I have found that, as we age, we all gradually fade away. We become invisible to the young, the working population, advertising and marketing groups and rating services. We become the background music to modern life: a one note symphony of heartbeats that gradually fades into the furniture of the scene.
And I realized that, ultimately, I had written this poem about myself.
Glenn K. Currie

The Invisible Man

The invisible man,
Sunlight passing through him,
Before the window.
He peers against the glare,
Then moves away.
He moves down the street,
In silence,
Ignored by passersby.
A bearded ghost
With ancient eyes.
Drifting through the day,
Like an afterthought.
Sleeping in the shadows,
Rising with the sun,
He gazes again,
In each window.
The invisible man,
For a reflection.

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