They painted me a golden Narcissus.
I denied every ounce of acrylic
stuck to the canvas in my name.
I was alone in a crowded room
and alone in an empty meadow.
At their parties
I was terminal. The hole
but I was an outsider.
So I left them their golden Narcissus
and whatever other idol.
Now I am coming back.
I called home,
looking for people that I know,
but I am not finding them.
Main street is deserted at three
in the morning.
In these windows, behind the reflections,
is a darkness reminding me.
© 1993, 1994 Wayne Pitcher