Friendly Fire.
I’ll sculpt with bitterness
in stone, in clay
in my clumsy cynicism
the ragged figure of a young man
I’ll craft the sloven years
with nothing refined
or smoothed over
rough around the edges
It’d be the embodiment of
a strange shyness
swallowed mouthfuls of hope
and perceived cadging
That reminder is ugly and this statue is uglier
such a proud, lonely pose
shrugging away from
any hands that ever cared
I’ll leave my tools in his side
and step back to look it over
“A real piece of work”
That’s what my father would say
“Of course I was,” I’ll laugh
But I’d abhor the sight of it
and cast my work in metal
finished at last
He has the shell I’ve always desired
this bullet proof self-portrait
and I think I almost admire it
so much I avert his bronze stare
I want that cold skin
As I remove my palms from the kiln
patch the real wounds I’ve obtained
in kinder cloth
I wonder thoughtlessly
if that poor soul
is ever jealous
of my warmth
“I don’t care,” I say aloud
Turn off the lights and retire
leave my shadow to stand
the silhouette of my stillness
but beneath my breath
find that affirmation leave me
thinking of his lifeless eyes
my eyes, too
“But I do care,” I say softly,
to no one but myself,
an empty room, and my sculpture,
“God, it hurts.”