I carried it in my pocket Like a lost button Except it wasn’t a button. Horror movies, All-night cafeterias, Dark barrooms And poolhalls, On rain-slicked streets. It led a quiet, unremarkable existence Like a shadow in a dream, An angel on a pin, And then it vanished. The years passed with their row Of nameless stations, Till somebody told me this is it! And fool that I was, I got off on an empty platform With no town in sight. Self-Portrait in Bed For imaginary visitors, I had a chair Made of cane I found in the trash. There was a hole where its seat was And its legs were wobbly But it still gave a dignified appearance. I myself never sat in it, though With the help of a pillow one could do that Carefully, with knees drawn together The way she did once, Leaning back to laugh at her discomfort. The lamp on the night table Did what it could to bestow An air of mystery to the room. There was a mirror, too, that made Everything waver as in a fishbowl If I happened to look that way, Red-nosed, about to sneeze, With a thick wool cap pulled over my ears, Reading some Russian in bed, Worrying about my soul, I’m sure.
