My entranced self,
awkward, if not profound,
dressed up
in emic objectivity,
on bad-luck days, wonders
how you look to yourself -
where the running redundancy goes
to hold its megaphone,
if it goes, or
if you renarrate yourself,
hunched over on the edge
of your bed in the morning, if
your belly lets you hunch,
what you wear, what you take off,
if you remark upon your chest hair
and if you say, to yourself,
that what is meant by chest hair
is those coarse, grey filaments
that run across and down your front, if
you're looking in the mirror as you speak,
if you throw your voice prettily
the same way on every line,
if your morning's epic poem
includes reference
to the folds under your arms,
if your skin is dry, and
if you tell this to your wife
as your devoid-of-meaning polytone tells me, if
I'm your favourite A
and if my penchant for better accents than yours
is a cultural supplement, to be taken once a day,
and if it means you've failed, and
haven't you ever written a thing for yourself?
and - would you show me?
and I wonder
how much of this you could lecture back to me
like Tennyson, for days,
or if you'd recognize yourself
better than I.