when ronald mcdonald takes off his striped shirt his coveralls his painted face when he no longer looks like anyone or anything special sitting next to women in bars or standing in the aisle at the grocery is he no longer ronald is he no longer happy to kick a soccer ball around with the kids in the park is he suddenly unable to enjoy the french fries he gets for his fifty percent off i'd like to think that he takes ronald off like a shirt hangs him in a closet where he breathes darkly in the musk i'd like to believe that we are able to slough off selves like old skin and still retain some base self of course we all know this is not what happens the ronald leering at women drunkenly is the same who the next day kicks at a ball the size of a head he is the same that hugs his children at night who has sex with his wife on the weekends when they're not so tired to make it work who smiles holding a basket of fries in front of a field he cannot take off the facepaint or the yellow gloves they are stuck to him like so many feathers with the tar of his everyday associations his plight is that of everyone's we are what we do who we are