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My Old Self

Nathan Burley-Friedman

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

But he’s sick all right,
wheezing like an accordion,
when I’m 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’s no damn time – for ya end
a rotten ol’ tomato like me one way or nother!
He’ll start clearing his throat, horking about,
gggrrrach! gggrrracchhh! Ptuey!
I can’t carry on with him around – 
I tell myself: he’ll die soon, won’t he? Though,
I wish only a peaceful and natural death 
for my shed self - I do wonder -  will I
cry a reluctant tear for the last breath of he who continues to 
pry and poke with that watermelon smile?
A brown, corroded watermelon smile indeed.

Still, I can’t quite resist when
gentlemanly, he presents a platter for us:
g’on maboy, have a little taste - 
a big fat crusty cigar, novel in its size and cartoonish shape,
a healthy block of smelly blue cheese (aged to perfection) –
how he never forgets those crackers I like – 
and a label-less brown liquor bottle half-drunken; so be it.
Naturally, we’re naked in the sauna, smoked-out, drunk stuffed,
dreaming of harems and bank robberies 
until I pass out from over-infatuation.

When I awake the grizzly bastard is ready to leave – 
a packed suitcase he’s got tucked under his arm:  
scraps of my will, a few bucks in change, 
loose cigarettes, some brain morsels, hairballs, 
he took back that musty sweater that
he gave to me way back (I don’t wear it),
some odd shreds of dignity and 
a couple stale muffins for the road.
He hobbles along and lingers at the door, gleaming with vitality:
I’ll be back my booooyyy! Ggrraaaccchhhsssccht! Ptuey!
He’s a nasty fucker, my old self.
But I don’t have the heart to tell him.