Claire Murray Fooshee Second Prize (2012)

My Old Self

Nathan Burley-Friedman

My old self has made his inglorious return,
limping along, prying his way in the door with聽
that twisted, wooden cane
past my rational faculties.聽
He鈥檚 a wrecked, poor old geezer 鈥撀�
bad back, stained, wrinkled skin, busted old hip,
false teeth 鈥� he has that sinister grin every time.聽
What can I, a young, healthy self do 鈥撀�
tell a sick old man to go to bed?聽
Part of me loves him like kin
and believes that he loves us back 鈥撀�
this, all against my better judgment聽
as we share a heart, he and I.

But he鈥檚 sick all right,
wheezing like an accordion,
when I鈥檓 at my desk
he parks in his favourite chair beside my ear.
In his signature shrill, stale grumble he goes,
hhhrrrmmm come on ma boy!
There鈥檚 no damn time 鈥� for ya end
a rotten ol鈥� tomato like me one way or nother!
He鈥檒l start clearing his throat, horking about,
gggrrrach! gggrrracchhh! Ptuey!
I can鈥檛 carry on with him around 鈥撀�
I tell myself: he鈥檒l die soon, won鈥檛 he? Though,
I wish only a peaceful and natural death聽
for my shed self - I do wonder -聽 will I
cry a reluctant tear for the last breath of he who continues to聽
pry and poke with that watermelon smile?
A brown, corroded watermelon smile indeed.

Still, I can鈥檛 quite resist when
gentlemanly, he presents a platter for us:
g鈥檕n maboy, have a little taste -聽
a big fat crusty cigar, novel in its size and cartoonish shape,
a healthy block of smelly blue cheese (aged to perfection) 鈥�
how he never forgets those crackers I like 鈥撀�
and a label-less brown liquor bottle half-drunken; so be it.
Naturally, we鈥檙e naked in the sauna, smoked-out, drunk stuffed,
dreaming of harems and bank robberies聽
until I pass out from over-infatuation.

When I awake the grizzly bastard is ready to leave 鈥撀�
a packed suitcase he鈥檚 got tucked under his arm:聽聽
scraps of my will, a few bucks in change,聽
loose cigarettes, some brain morsels, hairballs,聽
he took back that musty sweater that
he gave to me way back (I don鈥檛 wear it),
some odd shreds of dignity and聽
a couple stale muffins for the road.
He hobbles along and lingers at the door, gleaming with vitality:
I鈥檒l be back my booooyyy! Ggrraaaccchhhsssccht! Ptuey!
He鈥檚 a nasty fucker, my old self.
But I don鈥檛 have the heart to tell him.