Awaiting Noon

Walking, my shadow-self trails behind.
With sun rising in the sky,
I beg that blackness to speak.
“Tell me of my younger urges,
those dark secrets stuffed into your shape.”

Shadow lengthens, stretches,
flexes young muscles,
shoves me hard.
I turn to step on, squash it, cover it up.

Shadow twists into ropey string,
spews hate, anger,
proudly displays its shit and piss
shouts, “Give? Give?”

I do give up, give in, give over.

I iron my shadow-self onto me
like dark lining, the thin layer
giving me starch, body.
And shadow quiets
For it is noon.

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2 Responses to Awaiting Noon

  1. Barbara Toboni says:

    If only our shadows could talk. Love it.

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