Could we explore my shadow? I asked
my shrink. She laughed, said Look,
this is worse than the truth about Santa
or God but I feel I ought to tell you:
You are stuck, I am sorry to say,
with the grey man who carries your name
because you have no shadow
from a scientific point of view
no matter what your man Jung may have said,
tobacco-smelling old goat.
Work it out: why should there be a playboy,
a James Bond who enjoys girls
with golden skin in every port,
not common but sophisticates,
sassy princesses and female spies
yet exists as your shadow
while you wait for the lights to turn green
beneath rain clouds, in your Honda Civic,
drink wine from Spar, bed by eleven,
then get up next day to do it again?
All this while your leering shadow cavorts
in Monaco and Monte Carlo?
Sorry, this is no place of dreams.
Now, back to your anxiety.
