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.