Disappearing Act

The blue-and-brown of the hotel room

echoes the shades of my wardrobe,

and I laugh inside.

I am neither as old as the room

nor as bland as the beige-patterned carpet,

but I like the friendliness

of comfortable colors.

In them, I do a disappearing act,

and strangers look past me, through me,

an invisible writer scribbling down their words,

preserving their appearance like leaves

pressed between the pages of a book.

c. EE

October 2003