Moving On

Moving On

If you do not acknowledge me
I won’t exist another day.
Out of your conscious
and into oblivion,
where I’ll simply fade away.

Every day at five ‘til five
I pass a man in a black corvette.
A blur of flesh and dark brown hair.
Every day,
and I’ve not waved yet.

Once a week,
when I’m out about town,
I pass an old woman
who’s always in blue:
A crisp shiny slicker,
or big floppy hat.
Not once have I veered to say,
“Hi, how are you?”

Felt covered berries
reside in my fridge.
An eye sore to any
who opens the door.
I’ve yet to remove them,
I can’t quite say why.
They already have fur,
guess they’ll just grow some more.

If you do not acknowledge me
I won’t exist another day?
Out of your conscious
and into oblivion,
where I’ll simply fade away?

I have not disposed of berries.
Not waved at the man
that I see in his car.
I’ve not stopped to say
hello to the lady.
But, over and over,
again, there they are.

I’ve erred, I think.
In fact, I know.
Such observations prove.
Without me,
Men, ladies and berries are there.
And I will go on
without comment from you.