“It so happens I am sick of being just a man”  
	-Neruda Walking Around
 
I’d grown tired of being just “this” man,
Of finding myself crying into mirrors,
Cursing the frothy-mouthed fellow 
For simply being who we had unintentionally become.
 
Through bathroom doors I’d lean, yellow and parched,
At irregular intervals and varying heights,
Hoping to find my reflection disposed anew to our goodness,
To approaching this life with our former drive.
 
But there he always was, lumpy and rooted by fear and rage,
Finding my probing eyes while averting his own
In a shifty but obvious cornered attempt 
To signal his collecting sadness and shame.
 
“But,” I lately cry, “I hardly know you anymore! Why this?
“Why measure our days by the wasting length
Of our shared and knowing gaze,
When once we were Lovers and Gods and Free?”
 
Yet at times I will catch in him a look, careful and small,
A twist of the lower lid and a sideways hitch
To his defeated stare, that betrays his truth,
That there is yet hope in Us, because we are yet Here…