I’ve hung myself in the closet.
Not from a noose,
but on triangular wire
amongst the other me’s I need
from time to time.

Ah, to come home and slip this self on,
wonderfully comfortable and
free from the pinching constriction
of everyday expectation.

To stretch and put away the day’s design
beside its tailored mates
in rows of guarded expression
and shaded impersonation.

To close that door and let them fraternize
in the rigid arrangement
of vertical purpose without me.

Tomorrow I’ll have to buff
the lingering irritation
from the bluff professional
and return, smiling, to work
despite the desire to stay here
in my dingy original.

I have pleasant hopes
of a rummage sale one day.
Filling racks and boxes in the driveway
with all the bold and somber colors
I no longer require.

A strangely wistful dream
to be suitable as I am.

© 2017 Mike Porter

Public Domain Photo