Of Being One of the Little People

In a run-down, suburban
Grocery store in Utah,
A voice behind my shoulder

Accosted me yesterday,
“Hey old timer, how are ya?”
I turned, expecting someone

Familiar, but was startled
By a man about my age
With a fresh surgical patch

On his right eye, bloody
About the edges, no one
I had ever met before.

He wanted to shake my hand,
But given the pandemic,
I said, “I’m sorry, I can’t.”

He had a small girl with him,
With long brown hair, light brown skin,
About kindergarten age.

She was quiet and patient
And he never looked at her,
And she never said a thing.

Seems he wanted to tell me
His thoughts on “Little People,”
How he always felt for them,

Must be rough being so small,
But maybe they could get work
Squeezing into tight spaces,

“Must be some advantages.”
He squinted his one good eye,
And I realized he meant me.

I was one of them to him,
One of the Little People.
Well then. I suppose I am

Almost small enough to count.
But he and I, and the girl
Waiting solemnly with him—

Her grandfather, her father,
I hope not her kidnapper—
We were all little people,

The sorts with no connections
Except with little people.
We might be tracked and sold to,

Might be scanned, might be questioned,
Might be conned or arrested
For nickel-and-dime reasons,

But no one really counts us.
We’re the kinds of lives who claim
To be more than a number,

More than just a number, but
While knowing we don’t measure
Up to even a number,

Which is why we buy the mugs
In the impulse aisle displays
Saying, “World’s #1 Mom,”

“Son,” “Daughter,” “Dad,” “Kidnapper,”
“Little Person.” I moved on
Awkwardly, with my crutches

Dangling tied-up produce bags
Of vegetables. Man and girl
Left the store. Little people.