Shame

I drag my shame outside for a walk because it needs a little air,

and we head for the quaint shopping district, where my shame and I can make a round

of the plaza, ringed with open-air cafés, and maybe stop for a drink.

At first I wonder why people are looking at us, but then I look down, and

get it—my shame, after all, exudes a certain odor, sweats profusely,

and it’s difficult to tell exactly what it looks like, or how tall it is, or even

what sex it is. Suddenly I feel it twitching as if it’s about to make a run for it—

which makes me grab its hand, or what passes for a hand. So now

my shame and I are walking hand-in-whatever by the shop windows, and we can see

our reflection, and I watch us pretending not to look.

O how shameful my shame is! But this time together has brought us closer,

and now my arm’s around its shoulder and I’m no longer in a hurry

and the air feels so fresh and sunlight so soft that I turn to my shame and say,

“Hey.” And my shame gives me through what I think are its eyes

such a look of pity that I jam my hands in my pockets, we skip the café, and I try

to lose it in the crowd. By the time I reach my front door, I am breathing hard, and

I don’t see my shame anymore. I have dinner with the children, my wife

gives me kiss, I lock the doors and shut the lights. But in the bathroom that night, as I brush my teeth

and look into the mirror, there it is, staring at me, stubborn, hairy, stout—

and I’m still not sure why I find it so attractive.