OK, another prose poem about, I saw a sign
that said photocopy class.
[LAUGHTER]
I don't know what they're going to teach,
but the poem is called,
"Save the Originals."
"For the entrance exam, we have to match
TV static to a daisy field.
After years of practice, books and rocks near and far,
it's a breeze.
At orientation, those with fluctuating weight or braces
are pulled aside.
Not ready.
We who will eventually copy have chosen one hairstyle and smile
and stuck to it.
We have the class photos to prove it.
Still, we're not allowed near the machines for weeks.
The equals sign on the blackboard
grows four boxes of chalk thick.
Pale sandwiches pile up in our lockers.
Then one day, we're told to take a left at the water
fountain instead of a right, and we're in the copy room.
I don't fiddle with the dials.
I make a copy.
I like him immediately.
He looks like me, but with darker circles
under his my eyes, a more pronounced scar
on his my cheek.
When I look up, I see that Sylvia
has made herself three copies at 10%, 35% and 75%.
A Sylvia crescendo.
I feel a hand on my back, and then I
don't look at anyone else anymore.
For the first few nights we stay up late.
We are each other's perfect hug.
He's thoughtful and helpful, my shadow with a shuffle.
He plumps the sofa cushions, feeds the goldfish.
I can tell from the way he studies splash
and splish that he thinks splash is the original
and splish is the copy.
How sweet, I think.
One day via the hallway mirror, I watch as he transfers splash
into a jam jar, then lets a golden handful of fish flakes
fall gently into the bowl holding only splish.
I'm at a distance, but I know which is which.
The next night, my red scarf is missing from the front hall
and so is he.
My phone rings.
The soprano has the flu and the understudy is performing.
He's at the opera, we all are."