Howard Firkin
It’s just a game: we hide; we seek; we find;
we don’t reveal. And while we play, it’s real,
and that’s the point—we make believe we feel
until we do and brain submits to mind.
It’s your turn. Close your eyes and count to ten.
You hear me move. Did I say something? What?
Your counting is a metronome, heart beat,
slow drumming of your fingers, tapping feet,
a dripping tap. You’re coming, ready or not,
and I am hiding, waiting, found again.

Our nakedness our only hiding place,
the only place we never have to leave.
We disappear from others without trace,
but that’s the magic, that’s the make believe.