Jane Doe

The therapists, the reporters,
The watchers, and me
Dig deep into the confines
Of your hollow mind and your empty wallet,
Trying desperately to find connections
Between the breadcrumbs left behind
From 18 years you have somehow,
And for some reason, forgotten—

On the news, they say your pretty mother died
Young, and your father, so very typical,
Bathed himself in the waters of whiskey.

But, if your father were my father,
All I can think is how mad he’d be
At seeing your hand cut, filthy bangs
Brush against my face. He would agonize
Over how I’d been eating, how and where
I’d been sleeping.

So I need to know. You need to tell me.
Before bed, did he ever bend down low and check
For monsters? What of your mother—
Did she ever sit up with you after bad dreams?
Or were yours the type too busy to discuss
Wockets, pockets, green eggs and ham?

The networks now they’ve found your name,
Your first and your middle, both equally
Unrecognized. They repeat them squished
And ran together, overlapping and rushed.

It makes me angry to hear it that way.
Makes it sound like you’re in trouble,
And it’s all your fault.

I worry that no matter
What you remember, you will never
Be able to explain how one night
You fell asleep on the street,
In the middle of Midtown, with no shoes
And a dirty face, cold, outside, and unfolded
Stretched out on pieces of cardboard dreaming.