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Poetry By
  Elizabeth Gallenberg

Published on: 12/27/2010
The opposite of you

is just like you.
He cuts his chin while shaving
Sings along with the radio
Smiles politely at work to keep the peace
Cups his hands to drink from the faucet
Mows the lawn in the evening
Hears the wind change
Knows the dangers
Tastes the blood
Thinks about death.
Thinks sometimes about you, too --
his wayward doppelganger --
thinks of you, and not well.

Published on: 12/27/2010

Poets would call your skin golden, and they'd be wrong.
It's a bronze alloy with just a hint of steel.
Your hair is all nylon now. It coils along your back,
black threads, every one the exact same length.
There's a faint whir when you walk, the gyros
powering your stride, the old swing, the familiar sashay.
I know this city as well as you, and when I can't stop myself,
I can always find you in the crowd.
Every year you've had something replaced, mechanized,
and how am I supposed to forget you
when every year you look more and more the same --
except your eyes, which pass over me
a little more quickly every time.

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