My
better self invested prudently, cashed out, moved
To
a city in the Southwest; I don't see much of him.
My
worse self, though, used to be in and out constantly.
I'd
wake and he'd be in the living room reading
To
the grey cat who'd listened closely to his words
As
she never listened to mine. He left dishes
Piled
high in the sink -- didn't our mother
Teach
him better? -- but cooked enough
That
always there was something left for me.
His
mockery had something comforting about it;
Who
else remembered who I used to be?
I've
grown so mild that he finds now no challenge
In
being worse than I am and disappears
For
months, for years. I seek him out
At
the last address I have for him. His neighbors
Say
he was evicted and spends his nights
Walking
the streets with profligate saints
And
vowing not to abandon his country.
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