They move down the entrance ramp along the emergency lane
To the traffic light where the exit meets the overpass
We cannot see their pleading gestures
Nor hear the demand for redress
Of a grievance so strong it has withstood the heave of death
And even if we could see or hear them
We still could not understand the burden of their entreaties
We do not know you O Spirits we would say
Impatient of their impertinence
We have not seen into your private lives
Nor can we estimate what purple intrigues
Have branded themselves thus upon your consciousness
But despite our protestations we do know them
And we have intuited their presences
As familiar as the reflections in stagnant gutters
In the public places and in the places emptied out by neglect
As familiar as walking into a strand of spider’s web
That clings invisibly to our eyes
We have heard in the darker chambers of our ears
Their despondent sentences their desolate orations
We have tasted the bitterness of their indictments
Of nameless injustices that persisted throughout their lives
That linger now that they are dead
Of maladies deprivations and above all injuries
Likely invisible even in life
We have read their regretful sonnets
On the labels of tiny thrownaway liquor bottles
In the colorful fonts of fast food wrappers
Sodden with rainwater beside the darkened road
We are startled but not surprised
And we feel a little thrill of superstition
When they insensible but insistent
Accost us at the traffic light
And require that we confess our resemblance to them
Forgive us our recognition O Spirits
As we forgive you who recognize us