You Are the Second Person

to ask:
Who are you
writing about?

All of you,
especially you
over there,
but not you.

I will never forget
the girl who screamed
from the front pew
in a crowded church:

My socks are wet!

The exclamation bounced
around the walls
and high ceiling
till it landed

on an old lady’s
tulle-covered hat.
I swear it wasn’t me.
Was it you?

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