I am not on the list of names
Mournfully read each September eleventh
Won’t someone weep for me?
Hunched in a bundle of rags, that was me
Sleeping off the vodka, forgetting my name
One of the guys, one of eleven
Other derelicts, maybe more than eleven
But what’s it matter, no one heard me
No one remembers my name
Me and eleven cardboard box dwellers, along with our names, died, too.