ARENA

Neck, you traitor!
You are nothing but a
three-ringed circus.
Shadows and dirt adore you,
unlike the mirror and I.

You make of me a clown
a tightrope walker, false-smiled and
quizzically clumsy.
I am falling most unhappily
into you, and the neckless midget
mocks me mercilessly.

I know where you came from:
my father, that devil, who disguised
his with a beard.
Curses! I can't not take you anywhere!
Yesterday, a friend called you
“Modigliani-esque.”
I smacked him,
but only to adjust his glasses.

I'm trying so hard to outdistance you,
you perverse slinky
you wicked ripple-thing,
you triple-hobbled horror,
but it's hopeless:
we're always neck and neck.
And neck.

Copyright Julianza Shavin 2008