Tu et Ego by Stephen J Golds

Close To The Bone, Poetry, Stephen J. Golds

Tu et Ego 

I, I am 

the garbage bag 

split in the bottom, 

you carry on Tuesday mornings. 

The dead potted plant,

you glance at occasionally 

when it’s raining outside. 

The radio with no batteries 

on the shelf above the kitchen sink, you’ll one day place in a cardboard box 

for Good Will. 

And you, you are 

the twisting echo 

in a smudged plate glass window. 

As all murmured reflections 

a beautiful deceit in reverse. 

A sparrow in yellowed grass 

for the tom cat with ripped ear and 

all encroaching darkness. 

Sunlight ricocheting through curtains the color of torn bridal wear.  

And we, we are 

neither 

here nor there and 

what dreams may come.