He laughs at himself
and his face is
not showing signs
of descending.
Neon signs blinking
back and forth in his vision.
He knows the tremor of day.

Picking up his soiled clothes
from the middle of the floor,
he smells them gratefully,
knowing they represent
his disillusionment.

He drinks his soda pop
and lets it fizzle in his mouth.
He's kissed his mother with these lips.
He's mangled his lovers with his lies.

He pretends.
It works.

Scratching his groin he
becomes another way to exist.

It is his method of reunion.
Joining self with standard reply,
he hates the same
neon lights that used
to form his opinions.

Somebody told me he died not long ago.
I was surprised.
I had not heard.
I celebrate his pretending to be human.

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