My Shadow

My fingers type the words onto this page.
My Shadow’s fingers would rather be in a basement apartment
In the East Village, typing this page.

I’m about to be eating wings and fries.
My Shadow would rather eat Filet Mignon and Asparagus.

I’m listening to classical music on the radio.
My Shadow wants to be at the Barbican, conducting the London Symphony
Orchestra in the Ode to Joy.

I’ve got foreign films in the DVD player.
My Shadow wants to be at the Paris, sitting in the back, hoping somebody’s
Cigarette smoke is coming through the lens.

I’m in a fast food joint.
My Shadow prefers a café in St. Germain.

I dream day and night of making love.
My Shadow is the greatest lover in the world.

A masterwork hangs in a little museum.
My Shadow has Apples and Pears on his yellow wall.

I live in a trailer.
My Shadow lives in a palace.

I wear Gap and Penney’s t-shirts.
My Shadow wears pinstriped suits and ties.

I meditate in bed.
My Shadow communes with angels on a rock.

Where do I end?
Where does My Shadow begin?

Wouldn’t it be joyous
To be
The secret me?

Maybe.