You’re some kind of closet,
aren’t you? Full of
things I saw myself in,
once.
I loved this, wore that
for fashion’s sake,
found that comfortable,
never really liked that
but wore it for another.
In the door,
the sound of age.
On the floor,
dust and silly notions.
On the walls, old newsprint, pictures
and chipped paint.
A rack groaning
with outlived garments…
nothing fits, nothing
worth saving, but if I give it away
who will I see when I look into you?
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Dark Matter 
January 15th, 2010 at 10:54 pm
tony….
I’m glad to have read this. hell, i’m frequently glad to read your work…it’s always so sharply written. I like how this poem explores existential angst with an undercurrent of ennui.
January 15th, 2010 at 11:01 pm
Thanks. Sound like it did what I’d hoped.