Little Man

In my wallet are several vital organs

made of plastic and paper.

My keys are worth more than my teeth

and my wedding ring weighs twenty pounds.

These contact lenses are miniature petri dishes

for an experiment gone wrong;

the cellphone is a nag, the wristwatch a spy.

The little man in me needs none of it:

he squats like an undiscovered arthropod

and bottom-feeds on my mutterings.

When he sits in the position known as Lotus

his knees point upward at forty-five degrees.

The supposed virtues are his zodiac

and when he’s naked, you’d rather not notice.

* 

A simple sonnet, of a sort -- if you accept your sonnets with the turn at the midway point, instead of line nine or line 13.

I wrote a version of this months ago, but it was missing something -- the penultimate couplet, specifically -- until just a moment ago! So, I heretofore call it a new poem again.

One of many poems I've been doing on the subject of middle age; trying to be funny, as a way of not being pathetic, which is where the topic would tend naturally.

...and one of a few poems I've done lately that  makes use of the homunculus.