My shadow is not a writer like me --
It does not want to go hungry
and be ignored.
It does not require
a nicotine fix
or a caffeine break,
but it does enjoy the warm
green carpet of the coffee shop
in late afternoon.
It never struggles
with out-grown jeans
or archaic reminders
of out-dated music.
Popularity is not an issue
for my shadow.
It cannot remember
better times.
It was there,
but it did not pay attention.
It does not like my wife
or the subtleties
of her stories,
enamored instead
with it’s own echo.
My shadow has fallen
in love --
I can only presume.
Perhaps several times,
but it is never
where it wants to be
long enough
to do anything about it.
It never gets sick
or pregnant,
or contract STDs.
It is annoyed with the weakness
of my body,
and that is something I have to accept.
My shadow does not taste
but it does hear,
and it does see,
and the world
slides underneath
without the smallest nod.
It cannot avoid
uncomfortable situations,
forced to relive the social impropriety
of falling across
countless breasts.
The poor misunderstood bastard
can feel shame.
It never argues a point.
It cannot call out a fool
for spouting idiotic,
stupid thoughts and beliefs --
Though I'm sure it wants to.
It can judge,
but can pronounce no verdict.
It does not turn right or left
or reverse
on its own;
only follow should
I decide to change my mind.
When I don't look,
it staggers and lingers
where it wants,
taking one second more to investigate a crack.
It can get drunk
by association,
and it blurs just the smallest bit
when the alcohol settles in.
It has never read
poetry,
and I suspect it is more
stable from the lack of the experience.
My shadow can boil with envy,
with rage and fire
that lick at the balls
of my feet,
forcing me to pick up
the pace.
So it hates me --
A deep,
spiteful,
mean hate.
I cannot blame it. |
Submission Name: It Cannot Help It (revised)
