Hiram thinks, “Here I am sitting inside
my shirt, shoes, and trousers, on a chair
at a table in a café. I am afraid
of dying. Also of nothing. I tell
a waitress what I want for lunch.
She brings it. I eat it, holding off
fear for a while. I don’t know
who or why I am. I am aware
of sitting, afraid, inside my clothes
and body. This is me, I think.
So this is me, and this my fear, ”
thinks Hiram, who remembers
to pay the check, who leaves
a damned good tip.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
This poem feels like you put William Styron's book 'DARKNESS VISIBLE' into a blender, added some of your own ingredients and have given me a strong drink.