Who am I?
Well, I don’t really know. Your guess is as good as mine.
I’m something more than what you think of me, I hope.
I suppose I’m the dirty napkins I carefully stack on my plate at restaurant tables.
I’m the trowel left out in the rain at my grandma’s house.
I am the warm indent left in the couch, and the hand print in the frost on my car windshield.
I am the stamped-in tread of my shoes; squiggles at the toes and solid half-moons at the heels, that tramp all over town.
I look something like you, I guess. If you look in the mirror, you see a person trying their best. That’s all I am.