Which One of These Guys Is Me
They were saying all these things I didn’t realize I thought. In real life I say, He said it, and go off scot-free but in dreams everybody’s story is mine. Not what they meant by collective unconscious and probably the reverse. I and we trickle in and out till you don’t know which end of the hourglass is up.
Someone remarked that so-and-so had written another one of those poems, so fancy. Everyone hummed baritone in agreement, but it wasn’t unkind; we admired so-and-so. Truth be told I didn’t even know I thought so-and-so’s poems were so fancy and that’s just it: does every person in the shadows of a half-familiar house have to be me?
Mornings we’ll ask each other, How were your dreams? and reply, Fancy, dragging out the final vowel sleepy and chipper. Today I left for work, pulled back the covers and kissed your cheek. The kinds of things you can say to someone still in bed. No facts, requests, household tasks. Who-cares things, little vowel-songs, ornaments. It would be wrong to suggest however mildly that you start finding images for my own latest news.