Lowly I Enter

I know you
do not think of me
often.
When you do,
I imagine
a fluttered arrival
of nostalgia
followed by
trite despair
abruptly cast aside.
I am sure
I hold no higher
elevation.
But, should you stumble
upon me in the night,
silhouetted by the moon,
head hung low,
I would delight
in the meager notion
of Pity,
for at least she
has a kind ear.


All Rights Reserved: Elizabeth Bohlander Wilson