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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “I wrote this in the dark” Down in the Dirt, v207 (5/23) Order the paperback book:

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Casting Off

William Doreski

While crossing the street I sink
into myself, telescoping
my legs and shriveling all over.

Traffic screams to a stop. Drivers
urge me forward or backward
or anyway out of their way.

Storefronts grimace with agony.
The clumsy light thickens. Men
in uniform try to help me,

but I slip from their paws and puddle
on the asphalt. A stretcher arrives.
Handled roughly, I pour into place.

The ambulance raves to the clinic,
where a woman in white laughs
because there’s nothing remaining

of my remains but a shadow less
convincing than the Shroud of Turin.
Meanwhile on Grove Street I stand

upright again and stagger
across the crosswalk, climb the cruel
granite post office steps, collect

my mail and resume my habits.
The self I molted, carted off
by the ambulance crew, no longer

pertains. Its damp shadow will dry
by day’s end, leaving no one
to blame for wasting volunteer time.

Shedding dysfunctional versions
of myself isn’t pretty, but
since I don’t occupy a novel

some writer left unfinished
I must devise a plot of my own
and discover a way to evolve.

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