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Imp

Imp

There is an imp that tracks us—
this imp collects cast-offs,
so it can never keep up
with the sun that warms
the elderly gentleman
sitting on the bench with his cane.
Still, seemingly impervious
to fatigue, every so often
the imp will accost you
and, like a relative,
demand you be familiar:
“But you don’t like peas, you like corn.
You’re favorite color is orange.
And don’t forget that you lost that suitcase
your grandmother gave you
as a gift.”
The imp carries two mirrors
that face each other
and reflect your image, or, what
may have once been
your likeness
back and forth
between them
so many times
and for so long
that they all seem
identical.

4 April

April 25th 2009  |  Comments feed  | 

Tags: poetry
 | 

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