Cellophane

Mr. Cellophane walks alone
Passes through crowded streets unknown
Walked around and through
Collided with
But still unseen

He has a “wife”
He has “friends”
He has pretend things
A childhood game of make-believe
That took on an all-to-real adult persona
Faceless in the city streets

He is the painted clown
Sent in for your amusement
Is his expression real?
You wonder
But, don’t care

Mr. Cellophane
You look right through him

I am his mistress
His transparent follower
Pining after even his attention
If I paint my face, too
Would he want me?
If I get a little prettier
Could I be his baby?

If he does not see me
How could you even spare a thought for me?