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1.
My clone was that adolescent friend
who would come over after school
every day but became uber-popular
in high school and then experimented
with drugs and later went off the grid
but now is back in town trying to get
their shit together and we have coffee
and catch up one afternoon before
night classes at the community college.
2.
I have grown resentful of my clone
for writing the groundbreaking novel
that I lack the audacity and discipline
to author myself, but then not caring
enough to attempt to get it published.
3.
My clone was in an indie band.
Mildly successful with a cult following
in the post-Napster, pre-iPod era.
Even toured several Midwestern cities
and paid off student loans with the proceeds.
Later, in downtown Des Moines, my clone
quit abruptly over creative differences
while claiming they penned all the band’s
cliched songs. It may have been the truth,
but it was bad form. Afterward, neither
my clone nor the talentless remainder
of the group found anything near their
original success. Post bygones, they do
get together, occasionally, for random
one-offs at dive bars – but only after
a debt collector or ex-wife has called
one of them demanding payments.
4.
My clone’s inner circle is an exclusive
nightclub. It’s not that no one can get inside—
it’s just that you need to be on the list.
5.
My clone did a ton of self-work to foster
personal growth while embarking on
many journeys, literal and metaphorical,
to arrive here. My clone squandered its
stamina while going the distance and has
been heaving for breath ever since
but remains focused on the finish line.
After their glow-up, my clone endured
eye rolls and sideways glances from haters.
It’s hard work being so well-adjusted,
but if my clone did it, then you can, too.
6.
My clone represents an advanced form
of sentient technology from a dystopian
future, and they will singe your thoughts
if you try to read their mind. Be careful.
7.
My clone doesn’t care much about
what you want. My clone doesn’t care
much about what I want, either.
8.
My clone has a love child that I kindly
clothe, feed, and watch over whenever
my clone feels a bit too downhearted
or distracted to care. My clone’s bastard
is hardheaded like me, so I give them
heavy-handed life advice while playing
catch in the backyard, hugging them
after they misjudge the trajectory
of my cut fastball, touching their bruises
gently and chanting it's going to be it’s going to be
okay as they cry through their pain
as they cry through their pain.
Adrian Potter
Adrian S. Potter, winner of the 2022 Lumiere Review Prose Award, writes in Minnesota when he’s not busy silently judging your beer selection and record collection. Potter is the author of three collections of poetry/prose/hybrid work, including the recent And the Monster Swallows You Whole (Stillhouse Books) and Field Guide to the Human Condition (CW Books).