I find him scribbled here and there
On margins of important thoughts
In books on western ways of life,
Attempting to untie some knots
Inside his head about himself,
About his choices and their fruits,
In words that overcompensate
With long, obscure Germanic roots,
Inadequacies plaguing him
And bringing down his confidence
To do the things he knows he can,
But finds himself upon a fence.
You switch his lettering with mine,
You’ll find me in his every line.