The Fine Art of Disappearing

When I was young
I learned the fine art
of disappearing,

of blending in so well,
so completely
that I went unnoticed

even in plain view,
a good child, no trouble,
hardly even there,

liked without being known,
not missed when I was gone,
a lush green volcano,

cleverly disguised
as a foothill, invisible
as it waits

to explode.

About this poem

Another poem inspired by a picture. These bikes are all over New York City, perfect rows of bright blue.

And yes, I was good at disappearing as a child. At the time, it felt like a survival skill. At the time.

Tom