I didn't mean to be an artwork,

going about my business on the platz.

Coffee slurped smoke in-out

shirt tail wedged down one last time.

Okay, okay, white shirt into back trousers,

But he could've chosen one of the other drones.
Who knows what stirs behind the small splinters

and wood grain? It's just easier to thank yourselves,

that you didn't end up like me. All your fears

in one tidy package vanquished with a smirk

and sideways step to the next exhibit.

And I'm easy to store.
If I dropped on your foot,

you'd know. If I fell, I'd crack. Like

to see a picture do that. Maybe

the critics would mourn. But what I really

want is for someone to touch the indurate bulge

that is my hair and pretend to put it in place.