Wannabe

Wannabe

I am your circumcised foreskin,    

useful as newspaper soggy with rain.

My face is a two-way mirrored pane

and I mime each person back from within.

I am a spectre that looms in the hush,

the smoke that swirls from your f*g.

I’ll rest in your lungs from your last drag

and feel second-hand all that you touch.

I am old molt trying to be skin -- I resent it.    

So find a wall and work me in. Keep

thrusting me until I am sinking deep

into boards and paint, my lovely prison.

Cut holes for my eyes and though I’ll be hidden,

I’ll see without living and I’ll be contented.