Anonymous

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Why can’t I be anonymous?

Why can’t I

hide among two dimensional shadows of shallow minds,

walk in the world of me,

mumble,

drool, if necessary,

speak French,

cry for independence,

and ignore my fat cat neighbor’s  

            intestinal woes.

I can still be invisible and listen to Jack White’s guitar,

even though Detroit is not synonymous with anonymous,

but the man has a gift of creative riff,

and if I don’t crank

                               too loud,

I can be nameless, still.

I can help the poor with money orders and cash,

and wear a mask to help dig through fallen rubble.

I can even send good luck cards to freedom fighters in trouble,

I can be anonymous, still,

   

                                        can’t I?

Or would I be a shallow minded

              shadow

                         of self indulgence too?

No, I’m not talking about you.

Hello, my name is Henry Clemmons.  Comment vas-tu?

Reviews

[Elizabeth]

The last two lines are great. I love the structure of the poem and the undone vibe of it all. To be anonymous... is it indulgent? Perhaps. It's a comforting idea, none the less.