Marie Sheppard Williams

I stood at a bus corner one afternoon, waiting for the #2. An old guy stood waiting too. I stared at him. He caught my stare, grinned, gap-toothed. Will you sign my coat? he said. Held out a pen. He wore a dirty canvas coat that had signatures all over it, hundreds, maybe thousands. I’m trying to get everybody, he said. I signed. On a little space on a pocket. Sometimes I remember: I am one of everybody.