Skeletons
By Christopher Munroe
There’s a skeleton on my T-shirt, when I go to the bar.
And another beneath my skin.
The visible is styalized, white and red on black, to give a
flash of color as I move through the night, a marker to show I’m there.
The hidden is more utilitarian. It props me up, keeps me
standing. It receives little credit, but I use it every day.
Of the two, it’s the first I’m known for, that people would
recognize when they see me.
But, in spite of this, the second is the more important.
It allows me to be me…
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