His soul made him uncomfortable 

It looked like an inside-turned-out dull black umbrella

It wasnt talking to him

                                       a discursive pantomime  perhaps

implying his inherent worthlessness

threatening collapse

thin-ribbed

fragile

without joy for rain

or pity for him

It was yanked free of his body

drawn on a shiny black wire into the bare stick treetops across the cobblestone street he stood at

and perched there like a scrawny bird

turning  slowly

espying him with red irritated eyes

with his soul outside him he thought he must surely be dead 

but he could thrust his arms before himself

wiggle his fingers  amicably

Hell  inside his shoes he could wiggle his piggies to the music wafting out of some unseen window as someone inside breakfasted on scrambled eggs spinach     ah  smells like cheese      and ah  dark rye toast

Wheres the jelly or preserves

would a dead person trouble himself with arms legs music and someone elses breakfast

he might

might not

whats dead 

                     anyways
a state of mind
                          unminded
he thought

                  Why wasnt he distraught

but then he thought

                                Dead doesnt think

Did it 

                                                                            

he didnt think so

not before

Before 

            How novel

Before   Now    After  

                                footprints in the sand  tracks in the snow

a process   a procession

nobody really knew

no one he knew ever divulged experiential knowledge of Death

his soul

in the bare stick tree

yawned

he couldnt make out Its face to determine if It was tired

or bored

or even if It politely covered Its maw with Its hand

but then It wasnt built like him

It wasnt homo-ified

It looked like an illicit derelict   shabby

if he wasnt going to look like himself after he died he wouldnt have ever assumed this   not in thousands of years

of guessing   but maybe in the professed Eternity  a Time Warp  Wormhole

Maybe

              maybe if he were petty or what was that thing he could never wrap his head around  --  vain  --  yes vain  --  if he were vain hed be awful upset by his Hereafter  --  its shrill representation

                                                                                                                              a sterile umbrella

up there in a stick tree

he had arguments with his shadow

and It walked off on him to let him really think about how he was acting  and even then he wasnt sure who was more immaterial in the meantime

                                              him without  or It without him

they were both vaguer without the other

and cooled off

theyd reunite

after dancing and parrying a tad bit more

then apologizing

but this was different

                                     latent   pedantically     pedestrian 

                  

it occurred to him they were alright                    

apparently one didnt need the other

and vice versa

he looked down at his feet
they shifted impatiently

scuffing their leather soles

he was done waiting

he was alive and kicking

his soul ruffled Its water-resistant nylon skeins

                                                                                --  AT HIM  --

ruffled his stuff at him

Whaddahell

so he ruffled his stuff right back at him     

                                                                  at It

It  separate   couldnt  or probably wasnt a him any more

how to sex a soul

not his problem

freed   he walked away unencumbered     refreshed

0900,  Seattle Monday,  23  3. 15