yet again.

they are the muzak
at the big box book store

you, i know you,
threadbare
those creases in your face.
braids dyed angry orange,
turquoise danglers.

i settle in a chair with coffee
and the “Outlaw Poetry Bible.”
you run a finger over
art book bindings.

it is painful to us,
this man in a Polo
mouthing "Polythene Pam."

we were marked
when tender,
you and i,
long, long ago.

so we scalpeled
and we sculpted
identity.

we pretend to be things

something else

anything but this.

09/12/2009