Little Things

He sat there,

slouched to conceal his chest.

Even duct tape could not

completely flatten it,

he would lament

late at night

to his friends,

few of whom he had even met.

A man comes up to him.

"What's your name?"

"Rosemary," he answers.

He is too stressed to think,

and he regrets this immensely.

"You're a *girl*?"

He nods, miserable he had

forgotten his own name,

and yet elated

at the incredulity

in the stranger's voice and face.

How strange, that the little things

could affect him so profoundly.