Like the dancers behind Shakira or Christina Aguilera
on stage, shimmying in living color but not truly acknowledged.
Like the wallpaper that covers the dark spots,
necessary, but bland compared to what caused the marks.
Like the country doctor who calls right back when you page him,
even though it’s probably something mild and he’ll be forgotten again
in a moment.
Always there, always serving, always yearning,
but never seen, never treasured, never found.
– Stephanie Mojica