I can feel the wool sleeves of my uniform creep up
The itchy strands rubbing against my wrists
While my blouse stretches taut across the ligaments of my throat.
I struggle to refocus my blurred gaze
But the speaker melds into the stage behind him
The microphone covering his face.
My hands are empty and ungainly
Legs creaking on the grains of the wooden pew.
So indistinct that they call me ghost
Like I’m not around to hear them
Appearing and disappearing
Even I can’t tell if I’m there or not.