Open the name drawer

The unnamed scuttle back 

into the corners

while the named lie still, 

designated.

Familiar strangers returned to 

like the first paragraph of an unread book.

The unborn, now approaching middle age,

peep from half-ripped wrapping.

The might-have-been lovers

drift out through their cigarette smoke

lift up a glass from across the room

turn away through the door frame.

The lost friend hides her kohl-smeared face

shakes out long black hair– never calls.

Trace out their names. 

Think how differently 

days could have been– 

or how very much the same.