and there is a man under a lamp post
illumed in crusty yellow light.
He looks pretend.
He’s hovering like a ghost,
and all I can think is
that is me.
It’s me -
that transparent, gangly monster in the crusty yellow light.
I always turn to the same remedy,
but it doesn’t work.
It never worked.
As if writing some sonnet,
some stupid haiku,
is going to make me like myself
when I keep drinking caffeine,
ignoring politics,
and failing to connect with other human beings.
I don’t like myself very much.
It’s such an understatement,
and I’ve understated it so many times.
I’m a monster in crusty yellow light
understating my sheer ugliness
and my intangibility
and the fact that when this light goes out
I will not even drift away in one piece,
just dissipate as if the world ate me
in one dissatisfied bite.
