We celebrate their days，

    eat hot dogs， love baseball，

    but they say we were born to weed，

    change diapers， carry crates¹ in the grey of dawn

    while they sleep. Awake， they look at us without seeing.

    We see ourselves clearly， know ourselves

    precisely²， without parades and picnics.

    To survive， we must.

    I'm one of the invisible living among the notable.

    Day after day I hear doors shut，

    stumble over slurs³， and bump into the man

    who nods yes， yes， but isn't listening.