What’s left of me?

When I die?

Or when I’ve 

forgotten 

what to do

with my time?

A form of death 

of the heart 

and other 

appendages.

What’s left of me?

Not politically 

but physically,

personally,

philosophically?

And what 

are these 

meandering 

shadows 

on the tiled floors 

with their simple 

patterns of leaves?

Who are these

younger 

moneyed

types that are 

walking by 

and ignoring me

as if I’m mister 

invisible,

a ghost of 

Christmas 

future

or past or 

whatever?

So my unfinished 

black coffee 

on the table

is left behind

with the stains 

drying 

on the surface 

into 

meaningless 

shapes 

signifying 

sloppiness - 

fragmented 

patterns  

to be 

washed 

away 

when I’m

gone by

unforgiving,

undervalued 

and underpaid

hands.

(Michael Martinez 2022)