31
DEAR DAVE
by John Grey
They were in the bathtub,
the shower curtain, the sink.
You tried scrubbing your body,
thoroughly rinsing your skin,
but that silence you heard
when toweling yourself
was just their laughter
at your pathetic efforts.
You slept with them.
The sheets, the blankets,
the pillows,
made for the perfect way-stations
to your interior.
You wore them in your clothes
Denim pressed against thigh,
silk tight to chest,
they took as invitations.
Here you come again
pretending it's all you
when we just know
you're more than ever
the company you unwittingly keep.
We don't shake hands
for fear of their spreading.
And hugs of course
arc completely out of question.
We look in your eyes
and see them floating.
Ingrained in your voice,
we hear the murmuring of others.
Day by day,
moment by moment,
you become less your old self,
more what they are.
We've no idea what to call them.
So until they tell us otherwise,
Dave will have to do.