He droops by the still water. Not a ripple, not a sound
except his soft admiring murmurs. No point repeating
those (why increase his ego even more?) except maybe to
mock or jest. I’m a satirist, you know. He’s yellow,
must be fading, jaundiced, like a liver overloaded
with the liquor of l’amour, taking root, cutting.
(She chuckles). Been there, done that*. Now I am
transparent, clearer than his mirror or his mind
will ever be. You may hear me whispering, or wailing
under a bridge; watch me waver in the air, a heat haze,
cold as quiet, sideways and unseen.
* Can’t say I’ve got the T-shirt, no need these
days. My body ain’t substantial, just the ping pong plaything
of gales and glaciers. You may see me reflected in the moon,
a sonar blip in space.