I get lost in crowds: if I can, I remain invisible   to the hungry mouths. I stay unapproachable.   I wear the landscape of the urban chameleon.   Scarred by attention. And quietly addicted to innocence.      At starry parties where, amongst the rich and the famous   I’m stuck for words: or worse, I blether with the best of them.   I see their eyes glaze and they look for the drinks tray.   Something in the drift of my conversation bothers them.       So, who am I? Come on: ask me, I dare you.   So, who am I? Come on: question me, if you care to.   And why not try to interrogate this apparition?   I melt away to get lost in this quaint condition.      In scary airports, in concourses over-filled,   I am detached in serious observation.   As a passenger, I become un-tethered when   I get lost in clouds: at home with my own quiet company.      Herald Tribune or USA Today. Sauvignon Blanc or oaky Chardonnay.   Asleep for the movie. Awake for the dawn    dancing on England and hedgerows –   embossed on a carpet of green. I descend and –   forgive me – I mean to get lost in crowds.