This Is That Wednesday

No smudge for me.
I don’t succumb to that 

ritual anymore. I like
to keep my soul 

anonymous. 

I’ve forgotten how to walk
down city sidewalks marked 

on the outside.
What if someone calls 

my name before
I’m ready? I see one, then two, 

then remember.  A film
maker calls himself 

a freak for wearing a perfect cross
shape. But mine were always 

spills—stamping
my forehead off center.