The Sycophant

I lay panting on the altar
Of his ego, waiting for
His lacerating wit to disembowel me
So, his hangers-on can laugh
They lurk around the great man
Hoping they’ll be the one that’s
Going to be his muse
But they don’t know him.

The four o’clock phone call
From the weeping, lonely man
Empty and without a life
Calling me so that I can comfort him
Listen to his anger and fear
Feeding him with love and tenderness
Without asking for anything
An existential mirror for his ego.

I exist only as an object
He uses me like a footstool
There’s nothing there and his life
Is my life and My life is his life
I’m his shadow and ask nothing
But the nearness of his body,
His unattainable body, which
I watch being consumed by others.

He’s waiting for me to die
So, he can mourn me

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