Hold That Prosthetic Conscience
over your head and wave it
like a plastic leg, its straps flapping
and slapping against themselves.
Pop out that sympathetic glass eye,
let it roll across the table like a prized aggie -
it doesn't help you see better anyway.
Grab another drink with your artificial hand -
constrict the metals bands that substitute
for muscles. Hug with it, but know
it will never really feel.
Take everything off at bedtime,
even your altruistic teeth, and ease
your incomplete head to your pillow,
knowing you can dream terrible dreams
without guilt, while your moral center
rests on a chair in the corner.
I should also take the opportunity here to thank my dear friend Kelly Fineman for featuring my sonnet "January Aubade", and talking up my new book, on her blog today.