The Changeling

You’ve demanded I change
So many times
So many ways
I no longer know
At what point I become acceptable to you.
At what point am I no longer me?

Have I plucked my I for an I that not even you can use?

I’m a man who has shaved his head
To wear a wig
Perfectly good hair in any other time
Desirable hair, rich and thick
And this artificial turf
Chafes and slips
And fools no one

Still my persistent hair
Grows under cover
Ten thousand strands
Pushing
Gently lifting
their silent demands
As insistent, as staid
And true to their nature
As I have not been

 

 

© 2002 Homer Christensen

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