Driven Out

Seven dollars until Monday and I can't get
to the mac and cheese in my cupboard for dinner.
A plastic Kroger bag filled
with a night's necessities: toothbrush, lipstick
and a change of clothes.
Sitting down on a bench in the middle of campus,
I pretend I'm homeless, and since I don't know
where I'm sleeping tonight, I suppose I'm halfway there.
Is this what it's like: plastic Kroger bag hissing
beside me in the breeze, stupidly cheerful people
walking home because they can.
Because they're having some friends over.
A cookout and drinking on the porch.
I remember those days – before the invasion.

Here in the strength of the afternoon sun
everyone's casting strange shadows – all defined, ridged,
perfect cut-outs of themselves tightly following them around.
And I can't even find mine.