Aubade for an Egocentric Hypocrite Who Thinks He’s Deeper Than He Is
by the time I unfold myself from dreamless sleep, puffy-eyed and dizzy
you’re already on the floor in the lotus position,
scribbling poetry in your journal made from recycled paper
and bobbing your head to Coltrane on your walkman.
you barely glance up as I roll over into your vacated space,
hoping your poem might be about me but knowing
that it’s actually some new transcendentalist theorem you calculated
while kissing my eyelids last night.
I don’t bother speaking
so as not to interrupt your connection with the Muse.
sometimes I wish she
was flesh
and I
was her.
-MWE
29 May 2002
