Is my shadow a citizen or a
Not a question your father would have asked.
Not the high-strung impostor natural as rubber.
Not the scar of the man.
Not to look too shrewd in his wake.
Not ground, terribly versatile.
Not the other portal of weightlessness.
Not without a deadline always taking care.
Not one full-blooded vote.
Not the festive tree glinting on the army base.
Not the strangers in his monologues.
Not the location outskirts cut with grass.
Not the people they say were training to handle lights.
Not the warbling aridity.
Not hopeless for love yet to happen.
Not the living they do between volumes of tufts.
Not the nutrition they smell and burn.
Not the passing through that shod him.
Not inherited gait.
Not unlike mischief.
Not its inner talent-quest.
Not our marriage.
Not one kiss.
Not mine or his.
No, bury me next to Cynthia, her shadow had dignity.