Show Me Your Papers Poem by Luke Hobbs

How are you keeping, ma'am, I'm
Fine, while below the surface my
Life's a stack of newspapers, randomly
Blanketing the furniture, they block the
Ingress of outsiders, the egress of
Emotion, they help me keep track
Of what's important, who's died, who's
Still alive, I search the obituaries
For who I know not, to
Know oneself, is this still the
Ideal, or naivety? what's in plain
Sight is forgotten, and only serves
To collect dust, I'm slowly dying
Emphysema sets in, beneath the patina
Of memories, I still choose to
Give weight, but if you remove
All the excess,
Under the last layer you will find
The child
Whose wide eyes endlessly search for approval
Your identity is not the minutes
Of the meeting,
But the substance of moments
Well met