Glass I

I once had a glass I
and in case you're reading this
out loud to someone
I feel the need to clarify.

Not a glass eye
as in an eyeball made of glass,
a creepy hazel doodad
staring frozen in impasse.

Nor some tricky
eye-sized marble
clenched within your skull cavity,
designed expressly by the glass man to mask your deformity.

But rather an entire me made of glass.
Hands, wrists and ass.
All stunningly in proportion and accurate in mass.

This is no lie,
I'm loathe of jest.
Merely something I felt an inkling to get finally off my chest.

It was a sight to behold
and a feeling to be holding,
this pellucid Botticelli was like paradise unfolding.

It was stunning in the sun
and just as beauteous at night,
when we did hit the town we were an ostentatious sight.

I and I would dance
beneath a chandelier of stars,
striking hearts with envy like a pair of live Renoirs.

Some would ask to cut in-
but none could turn this trick.
For to see me dance with another would surely cut me to the quick.

I and I would dance
as the others' envy-ridden eyes
were reflected in the silky, glowing, luminous face of I's.

And every night we'd go home
for a rub-down and Windex bath.
Such a propensity for showing fingerprints, no mere mortal hath.

Like a glorious lucent ice swan
who'd never melt into the punch,
I was lucky to have I, and I knew as much.

Which is why it stung a bitter sting
-that shattering affair-
I'll see it live in infamy,
the night I was dropped down the stairs!

Tumbling gracefully in a dive
a sight I won't soon forget.
Nor the sound as I hit the ground and exploded, I regret.

T'was fate I guess
Oh God the mess!
My rancor it commands.

And what's the worse
to this day I curse
my popcorn butter-coated hands!

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