even more often, for the last dozen
years—it's
been like this. But I'm not
crazy; he is.
Hey Dan, it's
me, he says;
your humble ubiquitous
plastic black
men's pocket comb.
Why not write
a nice little image poem
about me
in a profoundly
casual tone? Can you believe it?
I mean—he's not exactly
one in a million;
it's more like
literally (probably) one
of ten billion clones
which lurk
like hideous spiders
inside every junk drawer
and travel bag
in the world,
which hover, all
dead and distorted,
inside all of those
weird alien blue
jars the barbershops use,
and which sulk
forgotten in bathroom cabinets
(you know, those deceptive,
untrustworthy kinds,
on the other side of the mirror?)
Forget it, I've always
told him, it's way too difficult
told him, it's way too difficult
to even so much as squeeze you in
to whatever
thing I'm working on; face it,
to whatever
thing I'm working on; face it,
you're full of dead skin
and hair fuzz, and not at all
moral, like the good old
soap is—or virtuous
like the upstanding toothbrush.
But it must be
his response, that inevitable bristle
of silence, which, lately
is forcing me to admit
that what he really represents is
one of the most workable
one of the most workable
means to an end
that exists
in my entire universe,
And that, pretty much all the time,
I totally find
that damn mind-
numbing
ubiquity of his, more than
slightly—reassuring.
